


The Invasion...

by dreamers_wonderland



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Blood, Canon Compliant, Drinking, F/M, Gore, M/M, Mental Illness, Pining, Road Trip, Sexual Situations, Slow Burn, Smoking, Stealing, Swearing, Violence, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 86,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamers_wonderland/pseuds/dreamers_wonderland
Summary: Mad Sweeney could not recall the last true believer he had. Sure, he’d been brought over as one of the Fair Folk, but it was different. A sliver of the truth, a dim shadow of what he was really owed. The belief of someone who followed traditions, not him.That changed when he arrived in Cairo.That changed when he laid eyes on you and he found that one didn’t have to believe in the myth to believe in the man.
Relationships: Mad Sweeney (American Gods)/Original Character(s), Mad Sweeney (American Gods)/Reader, Mad Sweeney (American Gods)/You
Comments: 41
Kudos: 155





	1. ...and the Rediscovery of One Mad Motherfucking Sweeney

Mad Sweeney didn’t know why he was in Cairo. Well, he did – he was supposed to visit the Egyptians for something or other – but he didn’t know why he needed to, or for what, or how long it was going to take. He didn’t want to be there, either: it was hot, it was gross, and they freaked him the fuck out three ways to Sunday. But still, despite the creepy crawlies he got whenever he saw Mr. Ibis eat the skin of a dead man like it was fresh jerky, the Irishman walked up the front steps of the funeral parlor and gave three short knocks.

Bast gave an answering meow behind him.

Sweeney jolted with a soft and startled, “Fuck,” twisting around to stare at the goddess who calmly licked her paw and stared back.

She stretched her front paws out in front of her, elongating her back, and released a lazy yawn. Sitting back, perfect and prim, she gazed up at Sweeney with eyes far too intelligent for a feline, and released the longest, loudest meow he had ever had the misfortune to hear.

“I just got here!” he swore, crouching down in front of the minute goddess. “Don’t you go yellin’ at me when I don’t have a flyin’ fuckin’ clue as to why I’m here.” He scratched his beard with one hand and reached into his pocket with the other, producing one of many of his hand rolled cigarettes.

Bast pressed her paws into his knee and lifted her head towards his face, sniffing his nose. Sweeney stayed perfectly still, though the strings of Irish swearing brewing under his breath did not go unnoticed. Bast’s paw pressed into his cheek as she meowed again, louder and longer if possible. Sweeney jerked his face away from her touch and stood, dislodging her from his person.

“She’s been in a fit for days now,” came the voice of Mr. Ibis.

Sweeney turned to him. He regarded the man – the god – with the same wary interest that he paid to Bast, who he searched for beneath his feet as he shuffled around the porch. The Egyptian wove between his massive legs, staring up at him, chirping in frustration and anger, as though he was the cause of this ailment of hers. He cupped his hand over the end of his cigarette as he lit it. “Know why?” he finally asked on an exhale of cloves and day-old alcohol.

Mr. Ibis arched a manicured eyebrow. “You could ask her.”

They both glanced down at Bast, who had sat near the stairs, watching them both with a level glare. Once she had their attention, she proceeded to cry again, and turned down the steps, tail upturned, and down to the yard.

Sweeney’s eyes snapped up to the Egyptian’s. “This better not be why I’m here,” he said.

Mr. Ibis cleaned his hands with a rag that hung from his apron. “We would go,” he lied, “But Mr. Jacquel is busy, and I have a body to dress.”

“You would go,” Sweeney repeated, nodding slowly, taking his cigarette between his fingers. “You’re a fuckin’ liar.”

Bast screamed from the sidewalk. Mr. Ibis was already shutting the door as he said, “I wouldn’t keep her waiting.”

“I’m not your errand boy, you flighty bastard,” Sweeney shouted half-heartedly through the door.

Bast was back to the stairs when Sweeney replaced the cigarette between his lips, yelling all the while, sparking annoyed snarls and swears from the Irishman as he stalked after her. She led him down the sidewalk, across streets, through traffic for blocks and blocks, glancing back all the while, stopping when Sweeney took his time to cross a street or wait for a light. When he took too long on a corner, staring after the shapely rear of a woman walking past, Bast yowled.

“Fuckin’ unbelievable,” he grumbled as he followed.

Ahead of him was an apartment building, one of the newer ones in Cairo, with nicer – not nice, but nicer – cars in the parking lot. Bast led him around one building, through a courtyard full of children, to another building on the property, where she stopped next to a dish of spoiled cream and a bowl crusted with evaporated water. She sat on the concrete porch upon which these things were and pawed at the sliding glass door.

Sweeney balanced against a post that outlined the porch as he put out his cigarette on the sole of his boot and tossed the remnants into a small trash can by the door. Then, he peeked through the half-open blinds. He could barely see the apartment due to the shade of the overcast day. Glancing around – and praising his luck (hah) – he found no one to be near and unlocked the door with practiced ease and a silent claim on the cream behind him. Bast darted past his feet and padded into the apartment.

As he closed the door, Sweeney noted two things – the apartment was a disaster, and someone was asleep on the couch. He eyed the lump beneath the blanket as he removed his shoes – a curse, really, as he wasn’t sure what smelled worse at that point, the apartment, or his feet. The lump didn’t move save for a steady rise and fall to indicate breathing. Whoever they were, they were fast asleep, wrapped up in a black blanket decorated with stars, the night sky shielding them from the cold of the apartment. Sweeney aligned his boots with the door and stepped further inside. There was a coffee table situated in front of the couch, a measured distance in the middle of the L shaped furniture. Sitting on top was a glass of water, a pill bottle, and a small calendar, all buried amongst casual litter – a book, a coke can, various wrappers. The calendar had numbers counting down from thirty in each corner, and as Sweeney looked, he noticed that four days had been missed.

He walked even further in, past a round glass table for two that was covered in empty boxes and unfolded laundry, to a kitchen that smelled a little like mildew and housed a sink full of dirty dishes. Bast jogged past him with a toy pumpkin in her mouth. Sweeney paid her no mind. Instead, he opened the fridge and pulled out the cream inside, drinking directly from the bottle until it was empty. Then he tilted his head from one side with a satisfying crack, then to the other with another crack, and set the empty bottle in the trash bin by the counter. He draped his coat over one of the two chairs at the table, cast a glance at the unmoving form on the couch who Bast was trying to wake once more, and got to work.

Sweeney washed the dishes and put them away. He cleaned the counters. He folded the laundry that smelled relatively clean and put them in drawers and on hangers that he found in an abandoned bedroom. He made the bed. He gathered the trash. He dusted surfaces and wiped them down and all the while continued to look at the unmoving form on the couch to make sure they were still breathing.

Bast sat by their head, holding the pumpkin, shaking it every few seconds to rattle the bell inside. Still, the form didn’t move.

Once he was finished, Sweeney helped himself to a lonely beer he took from the fridge, and a couple of quarters. He found the laundry room just down the hall, where he deposited his filthy clothes, and wandered back to the apartment in the nude to borrow the shower of the sleeping tenant.

You had a dream about a woman with beautiful, brown skin and wavy dark hair who leaned over you as you laid stretched out on your threadbare sofa. She caressed your face with the gentlest of touches, her nails gliding over your skin and leaving goosebumps. She whispered your name in a thick, worried tone that you almost stirred from. She glanced over her shoulder. The loud hum of your shower reached your ears, and you frowned, curling further into yourself.

“Wake up,” whispered the woman as she brushed your hair from your face, “You have a visitor.”

You rolled over, arm swatting at the air as the remnants of your dream fell away. The beautiful stray you had been feeding for the past three weeks ducked your arm and released a startled meow as she did so. She held the pumpkin toy you had bought for her in her teeth and sat just past your fingertips. Gently – carefully – she lowered her head and set the pumpkin in your palm.

“Hey, pretty girl,” you mumbled. You curled your fingers, inviting her to headbutt them, which she promptly did. You pushed yourself up, shoved the blanket off your lap, and groaned. The shower really was running. Glancing at the table, you uncapped the pill bottle, took one pill with a deep gulp of water, marked it off on your calendar, stood, swayed, swore. You sat back down on the long portion of your sectional. The cat crawled into your lap. She was purring, lifting herself onto your chest so she could headbutt your chin. You eyed your open bathroom door as you pet her.

A beer sat on your sink counter, half empty.

The shower turned off.

“You need to keep a better eye on your human there,” came the surly voice of a man you couldn’t see. You glanced around your apartment – which you noticed was clean – for anything you could use as a weapon against this man in your bathroom. When you found nothing, you searched for your phone. It was around there somewhere, right? You dropped to your knees between the table at the couch as the cat chirped back at the man, thinking that it fell beneath the sofa. “Listen, just because I laid claim to the cream you didn’t want, doesn’t mean I take ownership,” the man continued. You heard his heavy footsteps coming down the hall slow to a stop. “Now where….”

You cautiously lifted your head from the space you hid in. The man was naked – he might as well have been naked, as the towel he had wrapped around his waist was small on his massive frame – and held a beer between his finger and thumb while the rest scratched at his cropped ginger beard. His hair was swept to one side, revealing a shaved temple that you suspected might be mirrored on the other side of his head. The sun coming in through the clouds and half open shades hit his eyes and made them glow a golden green.

He took a long swig from the bottle. “You’re awake,” he pointed out.

A million responses went through your head – “Get out!” “What do you want?” “Why are you here?” “Don’t hurt me.” “I don’t have anything for you to take.” – but your mouth said, “Yes?” and “How did you get into my apartment?”

He motioned to the sliding glass door. “It was unlocked.”

You squinted at him. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It was for me.” He burped into his elbow as he sauntered past, dropped the now empty beer bottle into the trash, and went to grab another. You heard the dish washer running.

You sat on the edge of your couch, listening as he rummaged through your fridge. Bast cleaned her paw, still sitting where you left her. You glanced around the floor for your phone. “Is this your cat?”

The man snorted. The fridge closed. “Fuck no,” he answered, “She ain’t no one’s cat.” He came around the corner with another beer.

“I’m sorry, did I say you could come into my house and drink my beer and use my shower?” you asked. You felt strangely calm about it – maybe it was because he decided to not do anything to you while you slept. “Did you clean all this?” You waved to the apartment. Even the table in front of you was clean – and there was your phone!! You lunged for it, swearing as a large hand snatched it from your grasp. The man was leaning over you, kneeling on the couch, towel gaping around his thigh and tied oh so carefully at his hip.

“I wouldn’t be doin’ that if I was you,” he murmured.

Did you listen? No. You were fresh from a Depression Nap and manic enough to fight the seven-foot giant that broke into your apartment. You grabbed his wrist and hand and leaned into him, surprising him enough to earn a startled, “Fuck!” as you both roll off the sectional and onto the floor.

“Give me my phone!” you shouted.

“Get the fuck offa me?” he snarled. You had half a mind to bite him as he rolled, the towel now gone and pinned under you. You squawked, yanked on the phone, and scrambled up once it was in your hand. “Oi! Don’t you fuckin’—” He was on his feet and barreling after you, seconds from the bathroom door as you slammed it in his face and locked it. You braced your feet against the sink and your back against the door to keep it from opening. He slammed his fists into the wood. “Open the door!” he growled, “Don’t you fuckin’ call the cops!”

“Why shouldn’t I?!” you yelled back. “You broke into my house! You…you cleaned? That’s the weirdest thing a robber has ever done!”

“I’m not a robber!”

“Hah!” you snapped. Your fingers shook as you struggled to unlock your phone, doing your best to ignore how the door shook with his attempted efforts to open it. You did hear the lock click open. In response, you sank to the floor, keeping your feet against the sink, and fumbled the phone. “Shit.” It locked again as it hit the floor. “If you’re not a robber, what are you?”

“A leprechaun.”

You paused long enough to say, “Excuse me?” You turned your head. The shaking of the door had stopped. You could feel his feet retreating, vibrating the floor, and reached up to relock the door. “Did you just say you’re a leprechaun?”

“Did I stutter?” he shouted back.

“Are you drunk?”

“Not even close.”

“Meow,” said the cat from her position in the still wet bathtub. You looked at her. She peered at you from over its side. When did she get there? She yawned and pawed at the curtain, then flopped over and disappeared out of sight.

“Listen, Sweeheart—”

“Don’t call me sweetheart, I have a name,” you snapped.

There was an annoyed silence on the other side. The cat meowed. “Oh, because your sass is also needed in this conversation. Fuck off,” snarled the Irishman. He was talking to the cat and the cat was talking back and you weren’t having nearly as much trouble in believing he was _something_ , but a leprechaun? “What’s your name?” he asked after a long pause.

“Why?” You pressed your back against the door and pulled up Google for a quick search: Leprechaun led you to the wiki page, where you hit Irish Folklore, which led you to the Irish People wiki page, so you went back and selected Irish Mythology, which gave you a run down on Celtic Mythology across Ireland, Wales, and Scotland. You thumped your head back against the door. Another search, this time for Fairies and Fairy Rules. “If you’re a fairy—” The man grunted, “—Then I’m not supposed to give you my name. That’s, like, rule number one.”

“We need to get one thing clear, and that is that ninety percent of what you read on Wikipedia about us ain’t true,” he grumbled. You heard him grunt again, and the door bent as he pushed his weight against it. “Used to be a king,” he absently mumbled, “Then the Church came and cursed me and turned us all into piskies and nymphs and sirens and shit.”

“Why’d you clean my house?” you interrupted.

“Fuckin’ cat was worried,” he answered. You lifted your head to investigate the bathtub. The shower curtain fluttered.

“She’s a cat,” you whispered as you settled back against the door.

“She was worried,” he emphatically repeated. He shifted. The door creaked. “And you left cream out. Number one way to attract a wayward fae or two.”

“So, you cleaned my house?” you whispered.

“ ‘s part of the contract,” he replied. He cleared his throat. “Name’s Sweeney. And it’s my real name.” He thumped his head against the door. “Sure, your quick read at least told you that names have power,” he paused, “Or at least all these fuckin’ books. Is that all you do? Read?”

“When I’m not working,” you said slowly. Then, you gave him your name. Your real name. “So, you’re a leprechaun?” you asked, more so for your own benefit than really asking him. He answered, and stood from the door, presumably to get yet another beer. As he did, you moved towards the bathtub, peering in at the cat inside. She was lying on her back, staring up at you with the brightest eyes. You tilted your head. “So, what are you then?”

The woman from your dream flashed behind your eyes, along with a name that brought a smile to your face. You reached out and scratched her belly as you whispered, “I’ve always wanted a cat with that name.”

The lock clicked. You whipped around to find the man – Sweeney, leaning against the door frame, towel once again wrapped around his waist and a beer dangling from his fingers. “Yer not gonna call the cops now, are ya?” he asked with a tilt of his head. His eyes flicked over you as he drank.

Leprechaun. The thought of this massive man being a leprechaun just baffled you. As though sensing your doubt, feeling it creep over him, Sweeney turned his free hand over, showing you his palm and the back of it with his fingers splayed. Then, he turned his palm over and rubbed his fingers together. Golden coins trickled down in a steady stream, clinking and rolling across your floor.

You stood. Stepping over the pile on your floor, you grabbed his free hand and turned it over yourself, pulling his fingers apart, twisting it this way and that, searching for a place that the coins could have come from. Sweeney smirked against the lip of the bottle. His middle finger slid along your palm, traced your finger to its tip, where a coin appeared between the two of you.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been hold, staring in wide eyed belief at the coin. You pulled your hand away from his and let the coin fall into your palm waiting beneath it.

He drained the beer and disappeared from your door. “I’m taking some quarters for the dryer,” he stated.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

Bast chirped. You sat next to her, glancing down as she jumped up onto the rim of the tub.

That became a habit: Sweeney would check in on you when you’d left the cream out to spoil, would make sure that you were alright, and disappear after he had helped himself to a shower, the laundry, and more than a few beers. You, in turn, developed a lucky streak that you could pinpoint to his visits: first, you were given a raise at work. Then, a promotion. After, another raise. You noticed your bills dwindling as you were paying them off more and more, until the only ones you had left were the utilities and your rent. You even had a savings account.

You felt that things were finally looking up. And with every good thing that happened in your life, you thanked the leprechaun that had broken into your life and felt your belief in the strange man grow with every passing day.

And then the luck ran out without you realizing it.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you asked one day, months after you had locked yourself in the bathroom. You leaned against your counter, watching the microwave and the popcorn bag inside it, looking past the corner of your cabinets to Sweeney, who was sprawled on your sectional. He held up a finger, intent on finishing the bottle of cream you had purchased fresh for him in one sitting. Your curious look fell into one of disgust as he burped afterwards and dropped his head back against the sofa arm.

“Whut?”

“Why do you keep coming back?” You pulled the popcorn from the microwave and poured it into a bowl, covered it in popcorn salt, and shuffled to the couch with it and a beer for Sweeney. Your drink – non-alcoholic – was sitting on the table already.

He sat up with a groan of someone twice his age. “Besides the fuckin’ cat getting’ on my case?” he asked. You nodded and leaned back, setting the bowl in your lap. He immediately took it. “You give me offerings.”

“No, I don’t,” you protested.

“You get me cream,” he pointed out while shoveling a handful of popcorn into his mouth. The movie you had selected started to play.

“I get cream for a variety of things, not just for you,” you said. He lifted the bottle from the ground. “That’s because you’re disgusting and drink it from the carton.”

“So, you got it for me,” he smugly replied. You opened your mouth to defend yourself that no, you didn’t, but found that he was right. Technically, you had bought it for him so that he would stop drinking from the cream you cooked with, the same cream that you filled Bast’s dishes with.

Instead, you said, “Because you’re gross.”

“You still got it for me, specifically for me, which constitutes an offering,” he said.

“You’re an asshole,” you responded.

Someone knocked on your front door with three slow knocks.

Sweeney’s playful grin fell as he sat up, his legs arching over your head to plant his feet on the floor. You reached for the remote. He caught your hand and shook his head.

Three more knocks resonated from the door.

“Let me at least see who it is,” you whispered. The leprechaun released your hand with a frown and stood with you. With a roll of your eyes, you started down the hall. Sweeney ducked through your kitchen. You both ended up at the front door together, glancing at each other with suspicion and concern. You peeked through the peephole, then sighed. “There’s no one there,” you said as you unlatched the deadbolt, “Probably some asshole kids playing ding-dong ditch. They’ve done it before.”

You opened the door.

A bird stared up at you. A very large bird stared up at you.

Sweeney swore in what you assumed was Irish and swung his foot at the creature. It cawed, flapped its wings, and took off down the hall, to the door to the stairs, which was propped open. “And stay out, you fuckin’ winged rat!” he shouted after it.

“Um?” you asked, lifting your hands in a shrug.

“If you see that bird again, fuckin’…kill it.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have a personal grudge against a corvid, so no,” you answered.

“A what?” Sweeney asked as he turned to you.

“A raven,” you clarified, “And no.”

“That—” Sweeney said as he thrusted his finger towards the door, “Is not a raven.”

“And you’re not a leprechaun,” you said, crossing your arms. He sputtered, shoving his hands through his hair. “It’s a bird, it probably just flew in here by mistake.”

“You think that now but wait. Soon enough, it’ll come with a friend, and then they’ll both bring _Gr_ _ímnir_ to your door, and you’ll never know peace again,” Sweeney quietly snarled. His shoulders heaved with barely restrained rage.

You scowled and your mouth got ahead of you as you quietly said, “Calm down, Sweeney, it’s just a raven.” You regretted it as soon as you said. You hated when people told you to calm down, and, apparently, so did Sweeney, as he loudly and violently swore and tore off down the hall, muttering darkly to himself, and ducked through the door to the stairs. You stared after him. “Bye?” you tried to shout.

The front door of the building slammed shut.

Sweeney didn’t come by again for weeks. During this time, you continued to set out the cream on the porch, right next to the water, and buy an extra bottle of cream for your fridge for when he returned. You bought a chair for your porch, and a little side table, and strung plastic orange Edison lights, and white solar powered star lights, and pale yellow string lights from hooks you screwed into the balcony above you, giving you more than enough light to read by. Still, you lit citronella candles for every side of your patio and had a domed candle on your side table to cast light upon the pages of your current novel.

During the three weeks, while you created this little nest of yours, Bast continued to stop by to drink the cream in the dish by your feet and play fetch with the pumpkin toy. The raven stopped by, too, at first by itself, and then with another, just like Sweeney said. You fed them raspberries and blackberries that your sister insisted you keep in your fridge. They seemed to like them well enough.

One night, as you entered your apartment, you felt the heat from outside rolling through your kitchen. You pulled off your shoes at the door and shuffled through, ruffling your hair as you went, and found your patio door wide open. Outside sat an old man. In his hands was your book, your bookmark still obviously in place, and he was almost halfway through it. He was either a fast reader or had been there for some time. You hesitantly wandered out to meet him, gripping your phone all the while.

“Excuse me?” you murmured. He looked up. In the dying light of the day, you could see that one of his eyes was lighter than the other.

“Oh, hello!” he said quite enthusiastically, “Just who I was looking for.”

“Did you break into my house?” you asked.

“Only for a book,” he said, lifting the object in his hand before setting it on your table. “It was getting awfully boring waiting for you.” He had the decency to stand and brush off your chair before offering it to you. You sat down. The cream dish was already full, as was the water bowl. “I might have filled a thing or two for you, didn’t want you to worry about them.”

“Why were you waiting for me?” you asked. He arched an eyebrow. “I’m not calling the cops because you wouldn’t still be here if you’d stolen something,” you pointed out.

“Smart,” he said. He shrugged. “Cops wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing anyway. And put that away, those things are nothing but trouble,” he added with a wave of his hand towards your phone. You glanced at your it. It was on its last legs at thirteen percent, and you had already told your sister you were home and going to bed, so you turned the device off and placed it face down on your book. The man looked around and dragged a camping chair from the patio of your neighbor.

“Who are you?” you quietly asked.

The man tilted his head. “What’s today?” he asked you.

You frowned and answered, “Wednesday.”

A coy smile pulled up his lips, “Well, that just happens to be my day.” He held out his hand. “Call me Mr. Wednesday.” You took his hand and introduced yourself. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”


	2. ...and the Obscure Job Offer

Sweeney recognized Betty at the end of the block. They’re weren’t in Cairo, and neither of them have been for weeks, but Sweeney knew that the moment he saw Betty, there was going to be a conversation about why he was spending so much time in Cairo. And what could he say to the man he was indebted to? “Bast decided that I needed to go visit some human she’s gone soft on, and I’ve been going by ever since because someone has decided to buy cream on a daily basis and it sure as shit isn’t me.” So, Sweeney decided to say nothing, and hope that the entire thing would just pass him by, and that maybe it really had been a random raven that had flown into your apartment building.

He was lucky, yes, but he knew he wasn’t that lucky.

Wednesday was leaning against Betty’s trunk when Sweeney wandered up with a lit cigarette, and greeted the leprechaun with, “So, I met your mortal.”

“Fuck,” Sweeney softly groaned. He took a deep drag and exhaled slow, perfect circles at his shoes. They were dirty again. You had cleaned them one of the last times he had visited you. “Don’t have a mortal,” he responded louder.

“Sure you do,” said Mr. Wednesday as he pushed away from Betty. “Pretty little thing. Smart as a whip. Brimming with belief that’s giving you that pep in your step.”

“What do you want, _Gr_ _ímnir_?” Sweeney all but snarled.

“To the point,” said Mr. Wednesday, “That’s more cooperation from you than I’ve gotten in months.”

“I went to the Egyptians like you wanted, and you haven’t said shit to me since. What part of that is me not cooperatin’?” Sweeney did snarl this time. If you had seen him, you would have thought he was bigger that his already towering height. But compared to Mr. Wednesday, who stood much smaller than seven feet, Sweeney still felt small. He hated it.

Wednesday smiled. “I want to offer said _mortal_ ,” he said it like the word was a curse and Sweeney’s hatred deepened, “A job.”

“No.”

The older man arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you spoke for—”

“Why a job? Hm? How could that benefit you?”

“I believe that’s between me and the person who feeds my ravens,” _Gr_ _ímnir_ answered, “Not you.” The man clapped. “In fact, I have a job for you. Little place called Eagle Point, Indiana. Have you heard of it?”

Sweeney took another long drag on his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Not before now,” he answered honestly.

“Good! You’re going there,” Mr. Wednesday said, “Right now.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you when you get there,” replied Mr. Wednesday. He tilted his head, leaving no room for argument. “There’s a Motel America on the edge of town. I’ll contact you there.” He climbed into Betty, then left Sweeney fuming on the curb.

Back in Cairo, you were leaving work early after struggling to concentrate for most of the day – you couldn’t place why, but it was so hard for you to even stay focused, let alone stare at a computer screen. As you headed for the bus, your phone started to vibrate with a call, which you checked to find a number you didn’t know with an Illinois area code.

You contemplated not answering. Something in the back of your mind convinced you otherwise.

“He—”

“You talked to him.” Sweeney’s voice was garbled, staticky. You frowned and slowed down, watching the bus pull away from bus stop. He called your name. “Can you hear me?”

“Sweeney?”

“Did you talk to _Gr_ _ímnir_?” he asked. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and continued walking, passing the stop, aiming to head to the next one and catch the next bus. “Did you?!”

“The old guy? Mr. Wednesday?”

“Fuck,” he groaned. You heard something crunch, and something fleshy hit something solid in a chain of rapid smacks. “Fuck!”

“Sweeney?”

“Listen, don’t take his offer!” The line crackled.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t take his offer!” he shouted louder.

“Stop yelling!”

“Then listen to me!!”

“I haven’t even seen him!!” you shouted back. You cleared your throat and looked around. Softer and calmer, you said, “He came by a few weeks ago, sat on my porch and talked with me, and then left. He’s weird, but he didn’t offer anything.”

“Well when he does—”

“Don’t take his offer, okay, alright, Jesus fucking Christ, Sweeney.”

“Good.” Another solid thing hit something metal, making it rattle. “Aw, fuck, yer on a cell phone.”

“Yes? Wh—” The call dropped. You stared at your phone. When it came to Sweeney, the scale of One-to-Weird just kept getting topped. You shook your head, dropped your phone into your bag, and continued on your way towards the next bus stop. You fished around for your headphones in your bag, slowing your walk to a crawl, passing by a vintage black car that your sister would have loved.

“I’ve got a book for you!” called a man whose voice you recognized. You jumped, swore a little, turned. There was Mr. Wednesday, leaning on the hood of the immaculate black car with a book wrapped in butcher paper in his hands. “It’s an old one. Repayment for keeping an old man company before.”

You eyed him warily as you stepped off the curb but took the book anyway. “You didn’t have to,” you said. You lifted the book in thanks. “I mean, you broke into my house.”

“Then this is to clear the air of any discontent you might have for me.” He patted the hood of the car next to him. You leaned back against it and peeled up the tape, sliding the book out far enough to read its title.

“ _Popular Stories of Ancient Egypt_?” you asked.

“Oh, yes, thought it fitting, seeing as you live in Cairo,” he replied.

You cocked your head. “Not that Cairo,” you commented with an amused smile.

“You would be surprised at the similarities,” he said. He jabbed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Need a ride?”

You squinted. “Is it free?”

Mr. Wednesday gasped. He pressed his hand to his chest as he said, “Of course!” Then, he smiled. “All I ask is that you listen to the ramblings of an old and lonely man.”

The book was old, and in good condition, valuing at least a hundred dollars. You stared at him for a moment as you slid the book back into the paper, Sweeney’s warnings ringing in your head. He hadn’t said you couldn’t accept a ride from him. And it was a free ride. “Alright,” you agreed, “I can do that.”

He clapped and pushed away from the front bumper, hurried around, opened your door, and hurried back to climb into the front seat as you did the same. You tucked the paper bound book in your bag. As Mr. Wednesday pulled away from the curb, he asked, “Now, do you enjoy your job?”

“It’s a job,” you glibly answered.

“But do you enjoy it?”

You knew you didn’t. It was an office job, with good benefits, good pay, but holy fuck did you go cross-eyed whenever you had to sit down at your desk. You stared at Mr. Wednesday’s profile with a curiosity that burned your face and ears and toes. “No,” you admitted, “It’s boring.”

He smiled like he was waiting for that answer. “What if I told you that I could give you a job that not only pays well, but has good benefits for you, and gives you the excitement you crave?” He looked away from the road. “That excitement that you’ve been missing?”

You thought of your pills, depression medication that you had been taking for five years, through four different doctors, and under three different medication names. His proposal made you feel like you had two choices – to continue to live a life where a voice lived in the back of your head and told you every day how much better it would be for you to die, how life could go on and be better for your absence, even if you knew it was wrong; or to take a chance that you knew was incredibly stupid and potentially dangerous – who accepted jobs from strangers that just offered them?

You had one question, which you asked slowly, “What would I need to do?”

He drummed his hands against the steering wheel. “Travel around,” he said, “Meet people. Meet gods—” His eyes cut to you again, “You do believe in gods, yes?”

“I believe in something,” you replied.

“Do you believe in the human connection?” he asked. The car slowed to a halt in front of your building.

“The human connection?” you repeated. He nodded. You glanced up as someone wandered past, the neighbor from across your hall, Tis, short for something, though she never said what. She waved at you, stared at Mr. Wednesday, arched an eyebrow, then loitered in the front doorway of the building. “I suppose I do.”

“Good, good,” he said. He waved at your neighbor. “What do you get paid now?”

“Uh…” You tilted your head. “Like… twenty-three dollars an hour. Why?”

“Twenty-three times a forty-hour week, that’s, what…just shy of nine-fifty a week?” he asked. You nodded. “I’ll pay two thousand dollars a week, plus expenses and any medical bills, for you to travel around and meet people for me. Maybe do an odd job or two for them, but in my name.”

Two thousand dollars a week? Four thousand every two weeks? Eight thousand for a month? Your mouth went dry. “Can I think about it?” you squeaked. Sweeney’s warning lingered in the back of your mind, but so did a million other red flags and flashing lights and loud sirens. Who offered that much money to travel around and meet people and do jobs?

Mr. Wednesday’s mouth turned down in an exaggerated, but friendly, frown as he nodded. “Of course,” he said, “But I’d like a response by tomorrow, if you please.”

“Of course,” you mimicked numbly.

“There’s a bar here in town, _‘ales and Fables_. Downtown.” The doors of the car unlocked. You hadn’t realized they were locked in the first place. “If you decide to take me up on my offer, meet me there. Nine o’clock. We’ll drink on it.”

“ _’ales and Fables_ ,” you repeated. You opened the door. “Yeah, sure thing.” You cleared your throat. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Wednesday.”

“I hope to see you there, my dear,” he replied. The door shut firmly with a faint push. He pulled away.

“Hey, are you okay?” called your neighbor. You turned to her, took in her black dyed hair that was starting to fade back to brown, and her green colored contacts. She was still waiting at the door, watching the car go with a forced tension that made her entire body rigid.

“I’m okay, Tis,” you answered. She held the door open for you as you walked it and opened the second door. “He offered me a job.”

“What is he, a pimp?” she asked. You snorted. “Didn’t you just get a raise at work?”

“I got two.” You both walked down the hall shoulder to shoulder. “He’s offering me more money.”

“So, he’s a pimp,” she said. She opened the door to your floor. You ducked in and waited. “Hey, where’s your boyfriend been?” she asked, “Missed seein’ him walking the hall in the buff when he did laundry. It was a great view.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you said. You stopped at your door, frowning. Who could she mean? “The ginger?”

“Yeah, him.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s an asshole,” you said. You frowned. “No, that’s mean, he’s a friend.” Paused. “Still an asshole.”

“Asshole with a big dick.”

“Really?” you deadpanned.

“What?” She grinned as she leaned back against her door. “Haven’t seen much of you lately. You been okay?” You gave a noncommittal shrug and a matching sound. “Taking your meds?”

“Yes, mom,” you droned. “I’ve been talking to my sister every day, too, if you wanna make sure I’m letting someone know I’m alive.”

“Okay, smartass, I’m sorry for worrying.” Tis rolled her eyes. She patted her pockets and pulled an old pack of cigarettes from one of the back ones. “So, that job. Are you gonna take it?”

“Would it be crazy to?” you asked. Tis arched an eyebrow, commenting how it would be crazy not to as she placed a cigarette between her lips. She thumped her head back against her door. “I mean, what kinda job offers that?”

She snorted. “A job that asks you to travel around and meet people.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I!” She waved her hands. “You know what I would give for a job like that? My left tit, and I’m rather fond of my left tit.” Now you snorted and turned to unlock your door. “I’m serious!” she said with a laugh. She crossed the hall and smacked your keys from your hand. You gave her a withering stare but motioned for her to continue as you knelt to pick them up. “You’ve got a desk job, right? Eventually, you’ll become sedentary; meet some boring John that says he can fuck you six ways to Sunday when in reality it’s a two minute pump-and-dump; you’ll get old; you’ll get bored; and you’ll always have a voice in the back of your head saying “what if I had just taken a leap of faith?”.” She lit her cigarette then and glanced down the hall to make sure no one was watching. “Hell, I work two jobs in retail fucking Hell, and I would take that job in a heartbeat.”

You tilted your head as you slid the key into the lock. “I’ll think about it.”

She gave you a toothy grin. “That’s all I ask.” Tis gave you a two fingered salute and was through her door before you even opened your own. As it swung shut behind you, you paused.

Had you told her what the job was? You couldn’t recall if you did or not.

Bast came by as the sun started to set. She pawed at your door until you let her inside, away from the heavy wet blanket of heat that had settled over the city. You set a bowl out for her, filled it with fresh cream, then climbed in the shower, where you sat on the floor under the hot stream of water.

Bast eventually wandered in. She climbed between the shower curtain and the liner and sprawled out on the rim of the tub, watching you, tail swishing lazily.

A million thoughts went through your head and it was hard to determine which ones you needed to sort through first. You turned your head to Bast, setting your cheek on your knee. You could hear her purring. “I was crazy to let a strange guy in, wasn’t I?” you asked her. Her ears swiveled towards you and she closed her eyes. “I mean, Sweeney is weird. Like… on a scale of one to ten, he’s a twenty-five.”

Bast meowed. Paused. Meowed again and sat up, curling her tail around her paws.

You smiled. “It’s been nice having him around though, weird as he is. He’s a good guy. A good friend.” You lifted your head and shook water from your ear. “You know, I read mythology again for the first time since college. I used to study it. The classics, anyway, the overly done, overly studied, overly produced ones.” Your smile turned wistful and you buried your chin in your knees. “I haven’t studied like that in so long. I don’t think I even did that when I was in school.” You watched Bast as she cleaned her paw. “It was nice. Like going home after a long road trip.”

“Mah,” said Bast. She slowly dropped her paws down along the inner wall of the tub, then carefully climbed under the water. She dropped her ears back and ducked under your arms, sitting in the relative dryness your legs offered. Her purring seemed even louder now.

You hummed and scratched her head, trailing water down her back. “He’s a leprechaun,” you murmured. You turned your fingers under her chin. “And you’re the goddess of the hearth.” You couldn’t help the derisive snort that followed your comment.

Bast ducked her chin and bit your finger, not hard, but not soft, just enough to make you jump.

“Ow?” you asked as you pulled your finger away.

She planted her front paws on your chest and yelled in your face.

“I’m sorry!” you exclaimed.

She yelled louder.

“What am I supposed to do, huh? Believe it all?” you asked her.

She headbutted your chin and rubbed her wet face against your cheek. She was practically vibrating. She dropped back onto the bathtub floor and curled up. You scratched her head again, facing the wall, and wondered else was Bast was the goddess of. Cats, obviously. You thought maybe protection as well. You couldn’t remember much else about her. You wondered what belief was, anyway, and thought of the things and people you believed in.

You believed in shooting stars granting wishes.

You believed in your sister and all she could do and all she had accomplished.

You believed in ghosts, and spirits, and the afterlife.

You believed that Tis and your sister and your family believed in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourself most of the time.

You believed Bast was a good listener. You believed Sweeney was a friend.

You could believe in leprechauns and goddesses of cats and things. You could believe in gods.

Bast lifted her head and chirped.

It took a bit of energy, but you stood up after another ten minutes of staring at the wall, washed your hair, your face, your body, dried off, changed into some old but comfortable clothes. They were a little snugger than you remembered, but it was okay. You told yourself more than a few times that it was okay. You toweled Bast off as best as you could, then padded into the living room with a snack and a drink. You picked up you phone from the table and texted your boss to tell him you wouldn’t be in the following morning, that you still weren’t feeling well, then wrapped your blanket of stars around your shoulders and curled up for the night.

Bast curled up with you.

It was peaceful.

Across Cairo, at Ibis and Jacquel Funeral Parlor, Mr. Ibis felt his fingers twitch. The twitch caused his stitching of a detached wrist to move a fraction further than he intended, messing up the symmetry. He frowned. Luckily, the stitching would be beneath the sleeve of a gown. Mr. Jacquel glanced up from combing out the hair of the woman on their table.

“Do you need a minute?” asked Mr. Jacquel.

Mr. Ibis finished his stitching. The mistake was hardly noticeable to even a trained eye. “No,” he answered.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Jacquel set the comb down. “It looks like you have a story to tell.”

Mr. Ibis took the piece of flesh he had carefully peeled from beneath the woman’s skin and popped it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, tilting his head. He stared at his fingers as he moved around the table to the woman’s other hand. “Not yet,” he finally answered. He turned his hand over. “I feel this story is just beginning. And it will be a long and rather complex one.”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Jacquel glanced away from his partner to the phone on the wall, then around the parlor. “Have you seen Bast?”

“She’s with her human,” Mr. Ibis mumbled.

“Is that who the story is about?”

“It is.”

“Well,” said Mr. Jacquel as he walked to the phone, “I hope my visit is far in the future.” The phone rang. He picked it up. “Ibis and Jacquel Funeral Parlor.”

Mr. Ibis nodded to himself. He turned the woman’s hand over, examined her inner arm. It was mangled from her accident. Shaking his head, he picked up the thread and needle, and lifted both to his eyes to thread it.

He missed. And he missed the next three times, too. He set the tools down, removed his apron and gloves, and retreated to his library.

A story was starting, and his fingers ached to tell it.

It stormed in Cairo while you slept. You knew it in your bones before you even looked outside once you awoke, because it stormed in your dreams. In your dreams, you had sat upon your sofa, wrapped up in your blanket of stars, half-way through a conversation with the dark-haired woman you had dreamed of before. She was clothed in a robe of golden silk and held a wine glass that you didn’t remember owning. Her eyes turned to you, and in the blue light of the movie you thought her pupils were more oval that round, and her eyes more gold than hazel.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

The rain pounded on the glass door behind her.

“About what?” you asked. You wondered what time it was. Had you two been sitting there, watching a movie all night? You turned to see what movie was playing but found the screen blurry. She nudged your knee with one outstretched leg. You turned back to her. “Hm?”

“How do you feel about your belief?” she clarified.

The woman suddenly seemed so familiar. You leaned your head on the back of the couch, clutching your blanket between sleep exhausted fingers. She smiled and took a languid sip from her glass.

“I feel good about it,” you whispered.

(Somewhere between Illinois and Indiana, Sweeney felt just a little more powerful, a little less guilty about taking his time, and a little more anxious about who he left behind.)

By late morning, you were showered. You had taken your meds. You had brushed your teeth and washed your face. You’d even gotten dressed. You watched the time as you counted out your pills, frowning at the low number. You sent a message to your doctor and received a reply almost instantly – your refill would be waiting at the pharmacy, as requested.

You checked the weather.

You messaged your sister.

You wrote a letter.

You did other things, but you couldn’t recall what.

You headed out for the night.

Tis shouted at you from her patio. You turned around on the sidewalk, waving to her as you did. “Those look like bar clothes!” she shouted. She tilted her head back and released a thin, curling string of smoke.

You squinted. You didn’t remember telling her about the bar. “Yeah?”

She merely grinned. “Good for you.”

_‘ales and Fables_ was a new bar downtown, in the lower level of a building with a church and some offices on the floors above it. You appreciated the aesthetic: it was rustic, with naked, dim Edison lights hanging from the ceiling in artistic clusters; old, somewhat creepy fairy tale paintings were framed on the walls; there was Victorian wallpaper in a washed out purple; they played old records from a Victrola that seemed to carry the sound through the whole place.

You sat at the bar in the center of the room, a thing that was in a horseshoe U and opened towards the back of house. The bartender slid you a single paged menu, nodded, and poured you ice water. You glanced over it.

At nine o’clock – not a minute sooner, nor later – Mr. Wednesday took the seat next to you. “Almost didn’t think you’d show up,” he said as he waved at the bartender. She came over, took your order – a Light Princess – and the order of Mr. Wednesday – three shots of mead a piece – and left with the menu. You turned to him. “To seal our deal,” he explained.

“But mead?” you asked.

“Why not mead?” he countered.

You nodded. He had a point. The bartender slid over your drink, a blue and green mixture of Sprite, Curacao, and Midori with small LED ice cubes clinking together at the bottom. To Mr. Wednesday, she slid a small wooden pallet lined with six shots. He picked up one. “First, to bless the exchange.”

Your phone buzzed on the bar.

You tossed back the first shot and flipped your phone over.

Mr. Wednesday picked up the second, and you followed suit. “So, the terms of our agreement,” he said. You smacked your lips together. Honey coated your tongue, followed quickly by something sour. You wrinkled your nose.

“Two thousand dollars a week,” you said. You tapped your finger on the bar. “In legal American currency.”

“Smart,” he said with a grin.

“Full benefits that would be offered to me at any other job, like medical, dental, vision,” you listed.

He nodded with an exaggerated pout. “Of course. I will cover any medical expense that you ever need.”

“And you will cover any expenses that I need when I’m doing this job,” you finished, “Gas. Hotels. Food. Anything else that is needed while doing a job for you.”

“You’ve given this quite a lot of thought,” he pointed out.

“I’m giving up a lot,” you replied.

He lifted the second shot. “Then we have a deal.” You clanked your shot glass against his and downed it.

Your phone buzzed again.

Mr. Wednesday lifted the third. “And lastly, third time’s the charm.”

You tilted your head with a dazzling smile. “Of course it is.” This time, he clinked his glass to yours, and you both threw back the drinks. The mead was sweeter this time.

Your phone buzzed with a third missed call.

Mr. Wednesday pushed the tray of finished shots back to the bartender and pushed your drink towards you. You sipped it from its narrow red straw. Then, he tapped your phone. “You’ll need to get rid of this,” he said. Your brow furrowed as you watched him. “Brings nothing but trouble.” He picked it up, turned it around, and dropped it into your glass of water. The screen flickered, then died.

You were glad you knew your sister’s number, at least. She’d kill you if you stopped calling her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Tis, short for pseftis, which is Greek for “liar”  
> \- The Light Princess: Midori, Sprite, blue Curacao, led plastic ice cubes
> 
> SO!! It's official!! There's the job!! :D Oof, what's Sweeney gonna do when he finds out, though? He tried, he really did!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter!!


	3. ...and the Wetland Library

Sweeney woke up in a phone booth with two Cairo police officers tapping on the plexiglass. He squinted up at them, groaning, thinking. He hadn’t meant to come all the way back to Cairo – he thinks, at least, but hitchhiking with three different people says otherwise. He also didn’t mean to fall asleep (pass out) in a phone booth. As he stood, more than one glass bottle clinked together at his feet. He rubbed his face with his jacket sleeve and tugged the phone booth door open to let in the fresh air and greet the men before him.

Then he smiled that Lucky Charm ™ smile. “G’mornin’, officers.”

They did not arrest Sweeney. They did not even give him a ticket.

In fact, those two officers of the Cairo Police Department gave Mad Sweeney a fucking ride to a very familiar apartment complex, where he climbed out, gave them a wave, and watched them drive away.

Then, he turned and stalked up the mowed lawn, went around the building, and stopped at your patio. Your blinds were open and there you sat on your sofa, fiddling with an ancient answering machine and a wireless house phone.

Sweeney leaned his forearm against the door frame just above his head and lightly knocked a knuckle against the glass.

You jumped.

“Glad to see yer alive,” he drawled as you scrambled up from your couch. He tapped the toe of his boot against the concrete slab beneath him as you opened the door, tucked his fist against his hip as you crossed your arms, and met your gaze as you stared up at him. “Didn’t answer yer phone,” he pointed out. His jaw was tense. “Thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere,” he sniffed, “Or rottin’ in here from your own devices.”

“Don’t have a cell phone anymore,” you sharply replied, feeling an ache in your chest at his doubt.

His face fell. You stepped back into your living room. He ducked in after you with a groan, pausing as he wrenched his boots from his feet. “You took the offer.”

“I certainly did.”

“I told you not to take it.” He dropped his boot.

“He offered me too much money not to,” you said. You fell back into your seat with a grunt and picked up the manual for the answering machine. “Two grand a week.”

“The fuck?” Sweeney said as he dropped the other boot. He slid the door closed and sat on the floor across from you.

“Why didn’t you want me to take his offer?” you asked.

He dug around in his coat and produced a small plastic bag and cigarette papers. You stopped him before he could roll out a fresh one. “Because he’s a fuckin’ madman,” he muttered. He moved out of your reach and rolled a cigarette anyway, glancing up as he licked the edge of the paper. “Thought you were dead,” he repeated. He stood and slid open your patio door. The smell of cloves still wafted into your apartment, as did the unwashed odor of a man who hadn’t bathed in a week. You wrinkled your nose. “Really. No call, no answer, nothin’ since I last spoke to you.”

“Nice to know you care,” you mumbled. You stood while waving a hand in front of your face. “When was the last time you showered?” you rasped. You ducked into your kitchen.

Sweeney leaned against your wall as he smoked, looking up as if he was really thinking about it. You coughed when you wandered back. Trading some quarters for the cigarette, you carefully set it on your outside table atop Bast’s empty – and clean – cream dish, leaving it to smolder.

“Please, for the love of all that is holy, shower.”

Sweeney glanced down at you, arching an eyebrow, and leaned down with a teasing grin as he gripped the door above your head. “Are you sure it's not that you wanna see me—”

“You literally smell like you’ve been outside for a week so no, it’s not because I wanna see you naked,” you cut in, holding up your hand in front of his face.

He walked away, obviously hurt and obviously faking. “It’s a manly smell,” he called as he headed for your door.

“No, it’s not,” you loudly replied.

“Coward!” he shouted from the hall. You heard the laundry room door open, and your front door closed. Taking a deep breath, you opened your linen closet and held a towel around the corner to your front hall, looking up at your ceiling, wondering who you pissed off so bad that you had to deal with such a menace, or if someone considered this a blessing. Your door opened again, closed, and the towel was plucked from your fingers. “It don’t bite,” Sweeney crooned in your ear.

You jumped. “I will fight you!” you exclaimed, both startled and flustered and laughing as the large man ducked into your bathroom. You leaned against the wall outside of it while crossing your arms. “But really, why didn’t you want me to take the job?” you asked.

“What’s he want you to do?” he said to change the subject.

You frowned. He could try all he wanted but you wouldn’t forget about his protests. Shifting, you scratched your cheek and thumped your head against the door frame. You turned, slid down the wall, and sat, propping your socked feet on the wall opposite you. “He wants me to travel around. Meet people. Do jobs.” You patted your pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. “One of those ravens actually dropped off a paper this morning. I didn’t think you could train ravens to do that, but it was neat.”

“Meet who?” Sweeney gargled through a face full of water.

You rubbed your eyes and squinted at the paper. “Mrs. Friday.”

Sweeney dropped a bottle.

You peeked around the door frame. Steam rolled out of the shower. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he grunted, “ ’m goin’ with you.”

You paused in folding the paper in half. “So, wait, I don’t see you for almost a month – after you’d been continuously coming to my apartment – and then you expect me to let you come with me for my new job?” you asked.

The water turned off. “Yes!” he said as if you had asked if the sky was blue.

“No?” you said as if he were a child with a six-inch knife.

“Yes,” he said while climbing out of the shower.

“Why?” you protested.

He was tying the towel around his waist when he appeared in the doorway. “Because one human goin’ to meet a goddess is a death sentence.” The towel really didn’t help at all. He leaned his shoulder against the wall. “You even know who yer meetin’?”

You lifted your eyes to his face. “I’m not stupid. I’ve done my research.”

“Then who is it?” His voice was low and mocking and you glared at him.

“Frigg, you fucking asshole.” You stood. Stomping through the door next to him, you dug around through the bag on your bed. Inside were clothes, toiletries, a blank journal, your meds – enough for a few months, more if you took them every other day – and, at the bottom, a charging cable and the phone Mr. Wednesday had almost ruined. It was off but charged. You’d kept it as a contingency plan, gotten it fixed up. “At least that’s what I figured,” you harshly added. Self-doubt started to creep into your mind, and you quietly added, “Research says so, anyway.”

The front door opened. You looked back to find it open and Sweeney gone. Another door – the laundry room door – opened down the hall. You nodded to yourself. What a dick! He walked out while you were talking! The self-doubt grew. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe you’d pissed him off. Maybe this was all one giant fuck-up. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

You flopped forward onto your bed and buried your face in your pillow. Exhaustion was quick to catch you, and you didn’t even realize you were asleep until you were dreaming of months long past; of knocks on your patio door or your window; of a man carrying you to your bed while you were half asleep; of half watched movies that he’d finish without you; of stilted, awkward conversations that eased with every day. Somewhere during that time, you noticed as you dreamed, Sweeney had stopped coming because of Bast. Somewhere during that time, he’d become your friend. He’d come back because he was your friend.

You curled up around your pillow and the dreams gave way to a deep and silent slumber.

Sweeney leaned back against the wall of the small laundry room, flicking his lighter open and closed he washed his clothes. Guilt gnawed at him, not unlike how he gnawed on the now lit cigarette he rolled between his lips. A bag of them sat on top of the dryer. Someone had already taken out the batteries of the smoke detector in the room and opened the window that appeared to have once been painted shut, all for the purpose of smoking just like he was. He sighed. He didn’t feel guilty about that. No, he felt a little guilty about how he came back. He’d wanted to be mad. Wanted to yell. But he just couldn’t when he saw you. And then he went and pissed you off because he was mad about you taking a job with Mr. Fucking Wednesday. He thumped his head back against the wall and blew the smoke out at the ceiling.

“Hey, Ginger Snap,” someone drawled from the door, the door which squeaked as whomever it was leaned against it. It had been propped open by Bible, but that now toppled next to his foot.

He didn’t care about that, he cared about that name, that fucking nickname, he fucking hated that name and the hatred poured out into the absent growl of, “Cunt.” He paused, the cigarette an inch from his lips, and glanced up.

There stood Tis. Although, Mad Sweeney didn’t know her as Tis, but by her real name, the name of a liar and a troublemaker, the name of a deity known for lying and deceit. He straightened, turned to her, and snarled, “ _Fuckin’_ cunt,” then pointed his fingers which clasped his cigarette at her and accused her, “You did this.”

She leaned her shoulder into the door which was half-way closed with an innocent hum. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tis, like a liar.

Then, she shut the door on him.

Sweeney lunged for it before she did, and even though it was inches away from his hand, it still shut before he could touch it, and didn’t budge as he slammed his weight into it. “Fuck!” he shouted. He tried the knob: it turned, but still, the door didn’t move. He slapped his hands against it, his cigarette lying, forgotten, on the stained tile floor. “Open the door, you fuckin’ lyin’ piece of shit cunt!” he said.

“Nah,” replied Tis. “Think I’ll keep you there.”

He started to laugh, bared his teeth to a woman he couldn’t see. “Open the door or I’ll break it.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she sang.

His fist splintered the door just above her head. Sweeney thumped his forehead against the door, ignoring the pain that shot up his knuckles. He swore at her, shouted a litany of words that dissolved into spittle and frustrated half phrases in Irish. “Why’d you do it?” he hissed.

“Lock you in? Because I enj—”

Sweeney cut her off. “Why did you say, ‘take the job’?” He laughed again, though it was pained and exasperated, and he slammed his fist into the door a second time to hide his growing angry growl. The split in the wood grew larger. “You said to take the job, didn’t you?” Tis said nothing. “Didn’t you?!” Still, nothing. “Do you know who the job is with?”

“ _Ginnarr_ ,” answered Tis in a quiet but honest whisper.

Sweeney spit. “Of course you’d call him that.” He smacked the flat of his palm against the door and felt the smaller girl push away from it. “Liars, the both of ya.” The washer rattled in the silence. Sweeney turned and pressed his back against the door and looked around for the cigarette he’d lost, which he found by his feet. He took a drag. “So, Apate—”

“That’s not my name,” Tis lied.

“Why’d you do it?” It was so quiet that he thought she walked away from the door. He tried the knob again, shoved his back against it, but the door didn’t budge. “Well?”

“Maybe it’s just in my nature,” Tis snapped. She muttered that she was going to check on you and stepped further away from the door. “Good luck getting out,” she said.

The washer dinged while Sweeney was vigorously shaking the door.

He finally escaped the laundry room after an hour. His clothes had dried and he had burned through almost half of his supply of tobacco, and when he tried the door for the last time, it opened and you stood there, rubbing your eye, yawning and setting aside a chair taken from your apartment.

“Who trapped you in there?” you mumbled, still half asleep. Or maybe you were still fully asleep? He was dressed again and locked in the laundry room looking wild and manic. You blinked hard. Nope. Not asleep.

He turned you around and walked back to your apartment. “No one,” he replied, “When are you leavin’? You should sleep.”

“I just woke up,” you said. You dragged your chair back to your table. Your bag sat on its glass surface. All the pockets were open, and it was stuffed full of everything you could think of. You waved at it. “Tis woke me up. Said she repacked the back and added...stuff.” You shrugged and added, “Dunno what.”

Sweeney turned a chair around and straddled it, looping his arms around the back. You sat across from him and started digging through your bag. There were jeans, shorts, tee shirts, button ups, a sweatshirt, pajamas, all burying your phone and its wrapped-up charger at the bottom. You had toiletries and a brush, your medications, the book you were struggling to read, and your journal. Tis had written her name, her phone number, and the address of the building on a sticky note attached to it. You opened the journal and stuck it inside.

In another pocket was a small wooden carving of a spinning wheel. You picked it up and smiled, tilting it one way, then another. A ribbon wrapped around the silver spindle.

“Good thing to take to Mrs. Friday,” Sweeney drawled.

You slid it back into the pocket and zipped it up. Glancing into another pocket, you found your wallet. Another pocket held your keys. Another held a small pocketknife. You zipped them all up and looked around your apartment. An envelope sat on your counter.

He leaned back. “How much research have you done on this?”

“Enough,” you said with a shrug. You wandered over to the envelope and picked it up. It was heavy for a little envelope, and thick, too. “When I was in college, I studied mythology. Didn’t think it’d go anywhere, so I didn’t, like…major in it or anything. Just a few classes, all the classics. But I kept the books. And the college bookstore isn’t far from here, so I picked up a few more covering myths that I didn’t have.” You tilted your head. “Might need another bag with a few of those in there,” you mumbled as opened the envelope and lost your breath.

Inside was a stack of money, a mixture of tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds. There had to be, at least, three thousand dollars. There was also a note shoved into the pile, which you found as you pulled the money out to count. It read, “For the first job,” and housed a messy W at the bottom.

Sweeney snatched the note. “Fuckin’….” He crumbled it up and threw it in the bin. “ _Gr_ _ímnir_.”

“What’s the best way to get from here to South Dakota?” you whispered. You counted the money, and then counted it again. And again. Four thousand dollars, not three. You turned back to your apartment. Perhaps you could have it all packed up and stored in in the city? Until you could find somewhere better to live? You felt a smile creep across your face. You could probably even convince Sweeney to help you pack.

“Steal a car,” he answered.

“Sweeney,” you scolded.

“ ‘m serious,” he took a long drag from his cigarette as he leaned back against the counter. You found him following your gaze around the room. “Would you wanna leave this place? We could shove all of this into one of those big trucks. What are they?” he frowned as he thought.

“U-Hauls?” you offered.

He snapped his fingers and pointed at you. “Those.”

“What about Bast?” you asked, crossing your arms.

He arched an eyebrow. “What about her?”

“How do you think she’ll feel to know you’re stealing me away?” The question made your heart jump in unkind ways, but you ignored it.

Sweeney smirked, shrugged, and blew out a slow ribbon of smoke. “She’ll get over it.”

The two of you scoured through the building and found a cache of empty boxes on the top floor from someone who was just moving in. The old woman smiled, nodded, and offered them to you. Sweeney smiled sweetly – something that disarmed you – and ended up with a plate of cookies for his troubles. Then, he helped you pack up the boxes well into the night, left for only an hour before returning with the promised U-Haul, and that was it.

The sun rose as you closed the back of the truck and sighed.

Sweeney finished the last of the beer you had in your fridge and tossed the bottle into a nearby trash bin. “Well?”

“Just need to give this letter to the front office breaking my lease and say bye to Tis.” You tilted your head and looked around. “I wish I could say bye to Bast.”

“Don’t say bye to that cunt,” Sweeney grumbled. You turned to him, fishing the letter you had written in between packing boxes from your back pocket. “The neighbor cunt,” he clarified.

“She’s not a cunt,” you mumbled. You looked around the parking lot that you two stood in. Tis’s car was gone. You frowned, looked up at her patio, and sighed. Her lights were off. “I guess that’s it then.”

“Meow,” came a protest. You looked up. Bast stood by the U-Haul door, lifting her face up for your attention as you came closer, and purred when you picked her up. Sweeney wandered towards you and earned a hiss. “I don’t think she likes you right now,” you mused.

“She’ll get the fuck over it,” Sweeney replied. Bast leaned further over your shoulder and swatted at him. He leaned back, gave her a wide breadth, and wandered to the driver’s side of the truck.

You gave Bast a kiss atop her head and set her on the sidewalk. “I’ll be back,” you murmured. You tilted your head. “Do you wanna walk to the front office with me?” you asked. She stood, her tail flicking up. With a smile, you waved at Sweeney and shouted that you’d be right back, then followed the sidewalk around the building, where you dropped off the letter in the letterbox. As soon as you did, Bast rubbed her face against your leg before trotting away and around a corner and out of sight. You wandered back to the truck.

The drive to St. Louis was uneventful – you chalked it up to Sweeney’s luck and your exhaustion. You slept from the moment the U-Haul left Cairo city limits until the truck pulled off the interstate.

Getting a storage unit was easy, too. You watched Sweeney wander up to the building, talk to them for only a moment, and then walk inside. He came out scratching his neck and followed by four men, one of whom was the owner. Two climbed into the truck, one opened the gate, and another shuffled over with papers. You scrambled to the driver’s door and asked for your bags, which they gave with no complaint. Then they were gone, driving the truck down a line of garages.

“Just need you to sign here,” said the owner as he clicked a pen against his clipboard. You skimmed the contract and looked up at the words ‘twelve months’. “Your boyfriend here paid upfront,” he said, motioning to Sweeney. Coins clinked together in his pockets as he turned.

You tilted your head and gently sighed, “He’s not my boyfriend.” You signed the papers and traded them for the keys. The owner shrugged as he handed you a copy of the paper.

“Wait, you didn’t put a contact number,” he pointed out.

You folded the paper and shoved it into your book bag. “I don’t have a cell phone.”

“Gotta have a way to contact you if somethin’ happens,” he said.

Sweeney took the clipboard. You hadn’t even noticed him approaching. He scribbled something and handed it back. “We square?”

The man nodded.

You pulled your book bag onto your back, and your other bag onto your shoulder and started to walk. “So, now what?” you asked Sweeney as he lit a freshly rolled cigarette. “And how did you do that?”

“Luck,” he said with a smirk. You rolled your eyes. He led you around a corner, looked back, and pulled a set of keys from his coat pocket. “Now we head to South Dakota.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, then ducked closer to him. “You stole his car keys?” you whispered.

He shrugged and pressed a button. The lights of a small SUV ahead of you blinked. “Borrowed ‘em.”

“Borrow implies that you’ll give them back.” Despite your protests, you opened the trunk and threw you bags inside.

“He’ll get ‘em back,” Sweeney replied as he climbed into the car, “When they find his car in South Dakota.” You climbed into the front seat.

The drive was long – longer than you anticipated. Sweeney told you to get some more sleep about an hour in, and you woke up as you neared Kansas City. You took over from there, letting him sleep while you drove and fiddled with radio stations.

Soon, you were outside of Omaha. It was dark when Sweeney jerked awake. His arm lashed out towards you, smacking your elbow. It scared you, and sent the car swerving into the other lane. You jerked the wheel back, flipped off the cruise control, and let the car slow over the rumble strips and into the shoulder. Your knuckles were bloodless from your tight grip.

Sweeney was panting.

“What the fuck?” you hissed. You patted the dash for the hazard lights and flicked them on. “Sweeney?” You turned to him and repeated his name.

He was bracing himself – one hand on the roof of the car, the other against the door, his knees against the dash. “ ‘m fine,” he rasped. His thousand-yard stare said otherwise.

“The fuck you are,” you countered.

“I’m fine!” he snapped.

“Don’t yell at me!” you shouted back.

He yanked at the seatbelt, growling and snarling and ripping it from the lock, and threw open the door, slamming it behind him. You turned off the car – leaving the hazards on as you’d hate for someone to hit it when it was stolen – and hurried around the front, pausing by the tire. Sweeney was fumbling with his lighter, his hands shaking too hard to properly light his cigarette. A semi whizzed by. The wind tugged at your clothes and rocked the SUV. Your heart still hammered in your chest.

“Didja have a nightmare?” you asked, the words slurring together in your panic. Sweeney finally lit his cigarette. He was sweating. You stepped closer. “Sweeney, do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” His voice was sharp, but low, shaken, but not angry. He puffed out clouds that hung in the still air and shook his head. “Not right now,” he added in a whisper.

You shrugged, but nodded, and stayed where you were. “Okay, well…I’ll be right here.” You crossed your ankles and sat on the rocky shoulder. The world was eerie in the blinking yellow lights, but it was nice to hear nature in the wilderness around you. You tilted your head back and looked up at the sky. The lights from the city and the car dimmed the stars, but you could see more than you could in Cairo. You smiled. “You know, I’m not sure when I became okay with all this,” you said. You wrapped your hands around your ankles and leaned back, counting the stars, spotting the moon hanging low in the sky. “The belief. The stealing – well, okay, that’s a little easier to grasp. Be okay with, eh, but grasp, it’s not hard to grasp. The belief, though, I dunno, I think I’m okay with it.” Your eyes slowly wandered to Sweeney’s back. His shoulders were hunched up near his ears and his cigarette held a continuous red glow as he took deep breaths. “Still don’t think you’re a leprechaun.”

“Why’s that?” he mumbled. His shoulders relaxed. He looked over.

You shrugged. “You’re a giant, for one.” He snorted at that. He lightly kicked your shoe. When you looked up, he motioned for the car and said he would drive. You stood. “I dunno,” you admitted, “Leprechaun just.... doesn’t sound right.”

He shrugged as he sat behind the wheel.

You took the passenger's seat and fished around in the back for one of the gas station bags you had picked up, grabbed a water bottle, and sat back. He was already back on the road and quickly gaining on seventy. “Who told you that you were a leprechaun?”

“It’s not a matter of bein’ told,” he answered, glancing over with a growing smile, “It’s a matter of what people believe in.”

You tilted your head. “So, if I believe hard enough that you’re something else, will you become that?”

He shrugged again and cracked the window to drain the smoke building up in the car. “Dunno.” You closed your eyes. “Don’t you fuckin’ try.” You laughed.

The rest of the trip was relaxing. Sweeney took the time to fill you in on who you left behind in Cairo that you didn’t get to meet – Mr. Ibis and Mr. Jacquel, Bast’s associates. You took notes as he spoke; Mr Ibis had a section under I, which you counted out five pages for each letter until you got to; Mr Jacquel was under J, right behind him. You included the name of the funeral parlor, and went back to add Bast’s information, including that she liked cream and pumpkin toys.

When you looked up, Sweeney was pulling off the interstate into Watertown, South Dakota, the location of the Wetland Library, according to your note. You flipped to the F section of your journal, where you had slid the paper you had received. Looking around, you started to point out street signs and corners for Sweeney to take.

He finally parked down the street from a large brick building. You grabbed your bags, hugging your journal to your chest, and stepped onto the sidewalk. Sweeney took a moment to wipe down everything in the SUV with a rag, then threw it and the keys onto the driver’s seat and shut the door. He nudged your shoulder with his elbow as he walked past.

“This it?” he asked, nodding at the library.

You said it was. The sign above the door was missing the entire word Wetland, but Library stood out in bright, clean letters. You headed for the doors. “You don’t have to come with me,” you said as Sweeney trailed after you.

He shrugged. “Come this far,” he grumbled. He put out the cigarette he had been smoking and tossed it into a plastic public ash tray. He tilted his head. “You take your meds?” he reminded as he opened the door.

You swore and dug around in your bag as you walked in, ignoring his smirk as he followed you. “Is this your job now?” you asked as you took your pills. You checked the bottle and found it almost full, then remembered you had refilled your prescription. “Make sure I take ‘em?” you added.

Sweeney didn’t answer. He shoved his hands into his pockets and loudly asked, “What are you supposed ta do for Mrs. Friday, then?”

You swatted a hand against his arm and shushed him, then said, “A favor of her choosing.”

He grabbed your elbow, stopped you fast and pulled you close enough to hear him whisper, “You’re not fuckin’ serious?” You frowned but nodded. His grip on your elbow grew, his fingers pressing into your arm, and then he let go. “You are fuckin’ serious,” he groaned. He scrubbed his face. “D’ya always do what you’re told?”

You crossed your arms. Your book bag slid off your shoulder and dangled, bouncing against your hip. “If it’s by the guy that gave me four thousand dollars, yeah.”

“Doin’ anythin’ for him for anythin’ in the world is just bad reasonin’,” he replied. He suddenly looked tired, or angry, or both, with his jaw clenched and his tongue wetting his dry lips. He carded a hand through his hair, mussing the already unruly locks, and looked up. He pulled a grey and worn page boy’s cap from his coat pocket and tugged it over his head. You smiled: it would be a good look if he weren’t so drained.

He ducked his head and twisted towards the doors as the soft click of heels reached your ears. “May I help you?” asked a woman. You turned around. She was gorgeous and tall, with blonde hair that sat in a styled wave upon her forehead, while the rest was combed and swept back in a tight chignon. She wore glasses that rested high on her nose while a chain draped delicately around her shoulders. Her sweater was green and loose, her skirt black and tight, and she wore the cutest pair of Oxfords styled heels on her feet. Her name tag read ‘Mrs. Friday, Librarian’. A small smile turned up her red lips when her eyes fell on you. It dropped when they flicked up to Sweeney. “No,” she said without an ounce of polite gentleness. She turned away.

“Ma’am?” you stuttered, glancing back at Sweeney as you followed her faint shadow.

“Did my husband send you?” she snapped over her shoulder.

“I…If you mean Mr. Wednesday—” She cut you off with a sharp laugh. You stumbled, caught off guard, mind reeling with a thousand questions, which started with, “I’m sorry, he’s actually your husband?” Sweeney snorted. Mrs. Friday turned to you with a look that asked if you were serious. “I’m sorry, I know the stories, I just didn’t think they were…so literal.” You tilted your head and muttered, “And still relevant.”

Sweeney coughed into his fist.

Mrs. Friday whipped around, snapped her fingers – a sound that made him, surprisingly, flinch – and wagged one in his direction. “I will _not_ tolerate sass from his _bitch_.”

He turned around, his lip curled in a snarl and starting to say, “Yo—”

You waved your hands from your spot right in the middle and shouted, “I’m here to do you a favor!”

“Shh,” called the other librarian.

Sweeney whispered, “Fuck,” under his breath behind you.

Mrs. Friday lowered her hand. “A favor?” she softly asked.

You nodded. You were panting, either from nerves or in fear of being between two hair thin triggers. “A favor. Any favor you want, in exchange for a favor of my choosing in the future,” you replied.

“There’s a book I want,” she quickly answered. Sweeney stepped closer, mumbling about how fast her reply was. You elbowed him in the gut. He grunted. “It’s a children’s book. I want it for our collection here, but I haven’t been able to acquire the funds for such a purchase.” She crossed her arms to drum her fingers against her bicep. You noticed they were long, and a little sharp, and the color scarlet to match her lips.

“How much is it?” you hesitantly asked.

Mrs. Friday cocked her head innocently as she said, “Four thousand dollars.”

Your stomach dropped. Of course, that money wouldn’t be for you. You’re lucky you hadn’t spent any of it, having been too nervous to do such a thing. This whole trip had been funded on your bank account and the money you had squirreled away. You laughed faintly, the nerves crawling up your spine with frigid fingers, and licked your lips. “Four thousand dollars?” you whispered.

“It’s called _Baba Yaga_.”

“Shoulda known,” Sweeney mumbled.

You hunched your shoulders around your ears.

“By Ernest Small.” Mrs. Friday had walked away from you to the desk, then walked back with a sticky note. “It’s at this store. You get it, and happily donate it to the Wetland Library, and I will bend over backwards for whatever favor you wish of me, sweetheart.”

You didn’t bother to comment on the horrid nickname. Instead, you pulled the note from her fingers. _Baba Yaga_ by Ernest Small, Houghton Mifflin Co., 1966. Hardcover. Illustrations by Blair Lent. $4,000. All followed by an address just across town.

You rolled your shoulders and suddenly found them sore. “I’ll—” You cleared your dry throat and tried again, “I’ll have it to you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good.” Mrs. Friday’s eyes flitted over your form. A crease formed between her brow, and she sighed. “It’s a simple favor, but it’s…expensive.”

“No kidding,” you breathed, unable to help yourself.

She curled your fingers around the note. “There’s a motel downtown, called Motel America.” Sweeney softly groaned. “I’ll get you a room.” Her eyes flicked up, and the sympathy faded from her face. “Only you,” she harshly added.

“Oh, come on now, that’s hardly fair,” complained Sweeney.

You tried to smile. It came out as a grimace, and you knew it. You thanked her. She said she’d call, and have it paid for by the time you got there. You thanked her again, and shuffled out of the library, suddenly exhausted.

Sweeney tugged the bag from your shoulders. “C’mon,” he murmured. “The book can wait for the mornin’.”

“This sucks,” you sighed. You rubbed your shoulders as you followed him, wondering absently how a book could cost so much money, and then remember how much you spent when you were in school. “At least it’s not my own money.”

“Part a yer deal was that he’d pay for expenses, right?” Sweeney asked.

You followed him across the street, around a corner, weaving through the streets until the older buildings of downtown appeared. Further away, across from a gas station and behind a bus stop, was Motel America. You wondered if you could see the sign from the interstate. “Right,” you absently answered. You tilted your head and shrugged. “Glad I kept those receipts for gas and shit.”

Sweeney snorted. “You forgot to give ‘er the wheel,” he commented.

“Fuck.”

At least he didn’t laugh when he opened the door for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: - Ginnarr – another name for Wednesday that means “deceiver”
> 
> SO!! The first job! :D Were you expecting Ms. Friday? What about the favor? They're all very simple, but still life altering!! Please let me know what you thought


	4. ...and the Story of Éire

Motel America was the quintessential motel on the outside, and you honestly expected that to be the same for the inside, like the front office for example.

You were not expecting the seventeen-year-old desk clerk to be ushered away and replaced with a tired Indian woman, who Sweeney immediately turned away from. He stepped outside and let the door shut behind him. You stared at his back for a moment, watching as he pulled off his cap and shoved it into his back pocket, then turned to the woman.

She gave you a tired smile and asked what your name was. You gave it. “Friday called already,” she said. The blue jewel in between her eyes sparkled. You tilted your head, watching it as she looked down at the desk. Around her neck was a silver necklace with tiny charms. You leaned closer. “They’re heads,” she said, answering your unasked question.

You leaned back. “Ah.”

The woman set two key cards in front of you. “Friday said she did _not_ want that man—” she motioned towards Sweeney with a nod of her head, “—Staying here, but I would rather he do so than listen to him complain for hours.”

You took the keys with a soft and confused, “Thank you?” Tapping them on the counter, you noticed another chain of silver wrapped around her wrist. From it dangled delicate hands and knives whose blades glistened in the buzzing light.

As you pulled your hand away, the hand wrapped in silver knives grasped yours. “You’re Wednesday’s new human?” she asked. You frowned but nodded. She squeezed your hand. “Call me Mama-Ji.”

“Sure,” you whispered. You shrugged a shoulder. “You already know my name, so…”

“And be careful of that one,” she said with another nod to Sweeney. She released your hand. “Causes nothing but trouble.”

“I’ve noticed.” You smiled.

She told you check out was at noon.

You walked outside. Sweeney followed as you shuffled past the outside doors, wandered up a set of stairs, and shuffled past more, stopping at a door marked with a brass ‘12’. Beneath it was a ‘No Smoking’ sign.

Sweeney yanked it off.

“Do you mind if I use the shower first?” you asked as you unlocked the door.

In the room there was one bed, a tv on top of a short dresser, and a table. You set your book bag there. Sweeney sank onto the edge of the bed. “Don’t mind,” he finally answered. One eyebrow arched as he smirked. “You gonna mind sharin’ a bed with me?”

“We’re adults,” you pointed out. You opened your bag, pulled out your journal, your toiletries, your pajamas, your phone – which you folded between your underwear and your shirt. “We’ll be fine.” His tongue curled over his bottom lip as he watched you. Heat pooled in your face. “Will you behave? Because, if not, I will kick you out.”

He clicked his tongue and flopped back on the bed, laughing all the while. You stepped into the bathroom and shut the door. “Don’t lock it!” he called after you. You turned the shower on, set your clothes on the sink, and stripped. “Might need it while you’re in there,” he quietly added.

“You can’t wait?” you asked. You turned on your phone, checked the shower and carefully climbed in, standing right against the shower head wall. You muffled the sound of your phone turning on against your belly.

“I said might!” he shouted.

You rolled your eyes and sank to the bathtub floor, shielding your phone from the worst of the water. The screen steamed a bit, but otherwise was fine. You turned the volume off and sent a quick message to your sister – about how you had decided to leave Cairo because of your job, that you hadn’t found a P.O. Box yet, or a place to live, but you were fine, you still had your phone, she could leave you messages. Then, as you waited for a reply, you typed ‘Mama-Ji’ into your search bar and were directed to the Wiki page for the goddess Kali.

You swallowed.

You never would have thought you’d run into her in a motel, but now the jewelry made sense.

You knocked your head against the shower wall. Everything was catching up with you – Mr. Wednesday’s job offer, quitting your last job, leaving Cairo, traveling across the country with a man you didn’t know terribly well. They were things you didn’t normally do, and your sister pointed it out when she finally texted you back.

_“You’re still taking your meds, right?”_ she asked, _“This is unusually manic behavior. Are you okay?”_

Were you okay? You took a deep breath. Spots of water started to form on your phone’s screen.

_“I’m fine,”_ you replied, _“I just needed a change. Wanted to get out of a dying town. This job was the perfect opportunity.”_

_“Talk to someone if things start changing,”_ she said. Then she said she loved you, which you returned, and you turned off your phone. You stretched out and tucked it under your dirty clothes.

Sweeney knocked on the door with a grumble of, “ ‘m comin’ in.”

You ducked back into the shower. “Seriously?”

He opened the door. “Gonna have t’ deal with it, ‘n’ worse, if we’re to keep travelin’ together.” His accent was softer in your ears. The toilet seat flipped up, and he sighed.

You scrubbed your fingers through your hair, building up the soap until it oozed down your face. The toilet flushed and Sweeney sighed again, dropping the lid.

“Where’d you go?” you asked. He grunted. The lighter flicked. Cloves and tobacco filled the room, sticking to the hot air. You could deal with it. “When you were gone?” You tilted your head back to rinse out the soap, the moved on to scrubbing your body with a bar of soap wrapped in a washcloth. You might have scrubbed a little too hard, you thought as you washed your arms. You skin stung.

“Oh,” he mumbled. The curtain fluttered as he propped his feet on the edge of the tub. “Was on my way to Indiana.”

“Why?”

He snorted. “Boss man said so.” After washing your face, you made sure all the soap was rinsed off, then turned off the water, and grabbed the towel from the rack without moving the curtain. “D’ya know who he is?” he whispered, as if afraid to be overheard, “Who he really is?”

You wrapped up in the towel and paused. Of course you’d done your research. You needed to know who you had agreed to work for, and him showing up along with not-leprechauns who could pull coins out of the air made you think of magical beings.

“I know whose day is Wednesday,” you cautiously said. You pushed the shower curtain open.

His eyes flicked up from his boots. Stretched out as he was, he took up so much of the small bathroom. His back was pressed against the wall next to the toilet, his heels resting on the bathtub, knees bent, arms crossed over his chest. He’d removed his coat and wore a blue button up over the white tank top. You couldn’t recall a time that he didn’t wear the jacket around you, besides when he bothered to shower. His gaze lingered, taking in the details of you that weren’t hidden by the towel, as though he were mapping a trail he’d later take.

You stepped out of the tub.

He dropped his feet to the floor. He was close. He was extremely close.

You grabbed your things and opened the door. “I’ll let you shower,” you whispered. He stayed quiet as you shut the door.

As you dressed you heard the shower, and a second later, the loud fan. You sat at the table, drawing your legs under you, and opened your journal. You labeled every section you would need in it, from A-Z, and ended up with extra pages in the back. You searched through your bag for something, anything, to glue your extra little papers into, but found nothing, and turned your phone on again so you could search for the nearest store to you.

(Sweeney quietly swore and grunted, two sounds you thought you heard, but that disappeared under the whirring of the fan.)

You chewed on your pen cap. Flipping to the back, you marked the date. You weren’t sure what to write – maybe your thoughts? There were enough pages there, and you had an extra notebook that you could pull from if you needed more. You scribbled them down like kid with a diary.

(Sweeney groaned. You glanced at the bathroom door. If his stare from before hadn’t stirred something in you, that sound certainly did.)

You set out your clothes for the morning – jeans and socks – packed everything else up and turned off your phone before climbing into bed. If you woke up early enough, you told yourself, you could get your clothes to a laundromat and wash them before you left Watertown. Maybe you could get Sweeney’s washed too. Maybe.

You drifted off at some point.

You dreamt.

It was a good dream. A rough, handsy, man-handled dream.

At another point, late in the night, Sweeney nudged you. “Move,” he grunted as he pushed you across the bed. You rolled over, smushing your face into the cold pillow. You felt the bed bow beneath his weight, and your body rolled towards his. He was warm. The blankets tugged free from under your body. You pulled it back. He swore under his breath, mumbling and cursing the tiny bed. His warmth seeped into your clothes. You would have kicked off the blankets if you didn’t feel a compulsive need for them. The longer you lied there, trying to drift back off the sleep, the warmer you got. It took almost too long for you to realize he was nude.

“What happened to your clothes?” you mumbled.

“They’re dryin’,” he huffed. His hand slipped under your pillow to push the part you weren’t lying on over your head. “Go ta sleep.”

You swatted at his hand until he let go with an exhausted chuckle. You rolled over to face him. He was lying on his back, hands folded over his ribs, staring at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes. You drew your legs up and felt your knees brush his hip. “Hey,” you whispered. He glanced over. “Why were you goin’ to Indiana?”

“’S not important,” he mumbled.

“When do you need to be there?”

He turned his head to you, staring at you in the shadow of the motel sign’s neon glow. His hair was pink in the light. “It’s not important,” he emphasized. He shifted onto his side towards you.

You folded your hands under your pillow, under your head, and sniffed. He stared at you. You stared back. “Why’d you come with me?” you finally asked.

He shrugged the shoulder he wasn’t lying on. “Plenty a reasons,” he sighed. “Didn’t wanna go to Indiana bein’ one a them.”

“Why not?”

“Why aren’tcha sleepin’?” he asked.

“You woke me up?” you protested through a yawn. He shoved his hand against your face, which made you snort. “I’ll sleep when you sleep, you dick…!” you said against his hand. You wrenched your face away. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

He buried his face against his pillow and grinned. “Didn’t think you felt like that ‘bout me.”

“Shuddup.” You smiled.

Late morning came soon enough. While Sweeney dressed, you wrapped your dirty clothes in a trash can liner and shoved them into your bag with your toiletries and your journal, and triple checked that neither of you were leaving anything behind. You headed towards the office, half hoping you would see Mama-Ji again, half wishing to have deniability while Sweeney scoped out the parking lot for a new car to steal.

You still weren’t too sure when you became okay with that. You doubted that you really were okay with it, actually.

You pushed open the door, adjusting your bags as you did so. Mama-Ji was nowhere to be found, but the seventeen-year-old clerk from the night before was there, yawning into her coffee. She looked up when you stepped up to the desk. “Where’s your boyfriend?” she asked.

You took a deep breath, released a suffering sigh, and said, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Shame.” She leaned over to look out the glass front door. “I’d be all over that.”

You cleared your throat to regain her attention. “I was wondering if you could give me directions.”

You wandered out about fifteen minutes later with a sheet of paper stapled to your sticky note. Sweeney waved from a compact black Honda. You jogged over and climbed into the passenger’s seat. He drove out of the parking lot as you threw your bags into the back.

“So? Where to?” he asked.

You gave him directions. “It’s called _Le Livre’s_ ,” you said. You twisted back around and grabbed your bag, unzipping and zipping pockets as you searched for your wallet and the envelope of money.

“What—” Sweeney glanced over. “Sit?” His hand slapped against your back, twisted up in your shirt and tugged. You made a sound of frustration as he continued to grope at and tug on your clothes. “Sit your arse down ‘fore we get pulled over!”

“You’re lucky!” you shouted.

“That means fuck all if ya go outta yer way to cause trouble!” When he stopped at a light, he leaned over and pulled you back into your seat. You smacked his arms. He smacked your hands. “Stop—”

“Stop hitting me!” you shouted.

“You stop hittin’ me!” he shouted backed.

The light changed. You made screeching sort of sound as you slapped his hands towards the wheel. “It’s green! It’s GREEN!!”

“I’m goin’!”

“Then drive!”

“I’m drivin’!”

You sat back holding your wallet and envelope victoriously in your hands. Up ahead in a line of squat, brick buildings poked out a wood and wrought iron sign that said _Le Livre’s_. You smacked Sweeney’s arm.

“Oy, you—” He hit the breaks too fast. You jolted against the seatbelt, grunted, rubbed your chest and neck where it had dug in. He threw the car in park and looked over. “…Sorry.” Leaning into the wheel, he glanced up at the sign. “Go and get yer book.”

“What is your problem?”

“Don’t have a problem, what’s yer problem?” he shot back.

You huffed and climbed out of the car. “Just stay here and I’ll be right back.” A bell rang as you entered _Le Livre’s_ , falling flat on the thousands of books that filled the store.

“I’ll be right there,” replied a brittle voice.

You smiled at all the books that towered over you. “Take your time…!” There was a section at the front, framed in the display window, full of new releases. You trailed your finger over their spines and covers as you passed the shelf. Eyes watched you from outside. You glanced back; Sweeney leaned on the hood of the still running car, lighting a freshly rolled cigarette, eyes drifting away from you. You half wondered how hijacking a car worked, but the thoughts vanished as you spotted another book to read and picked it up. You were almost done with yours, after all. Maybe you would donate it to the Wetland Library, too.

As you read about a pirate in a cage and a nameless girl who fell in love with him, an older man crept out from the shelves towards the back of the store. He was short and brown, with thinning gray hair that was held back by a ribbon and wore a tunic that fell to his ankles. You saw someone else duck through the aisles behind him, and the man turned and shouted in a language you didn’t recognize. You tucked your new book under your arm and wandered towards the counter.

“Just this book?” he asked. He pulled a set of glasses from his shirt pocket and pulled them on.

“Uh, no, actually, I’m here for a very specific book. This is just a…” you shrugged and set the book down, “A plus.” You patted your pocket and pulled out the folded directions and the sticky note, sliding both over to him. As he read them, you noticed an old metal name plate on the counter that read _Mr. Le Livre_ in looping script. You smiled.

“This wouldn’t happen to be for Mrs. Friday, would it?” he suddenly asked.

Whoever was in the aisles towards the back of the store started to laugh.

You cleared your throat. “Yes?” You squeezed your wallet and the envelope, which were both in your hand. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s obnoxious.” The man stepped back and turned around. A glass case sat behind the counter; one you hadn’t noticed before. “Woman’s been trying to get her hands on this book for her library for years now.”

“What’s so special about it?” you asked. He glanced back as he unlocked the case. You shook your head. “I mean, it’s just a book. An expensive book, don’t get me wrong, but it’s still a book.”

When he turned to you, you noticed he had donned gloves, and moved a mat onto the desk before setting the book down. It wasn’t old, you remembered that from the note – not nearly as old as some other books you had seen before – but it was beautiful: the illustration on the cover gave you a wonderful clue as to the illustrations on the inside; flowers framed a dark circle that housed the title and a little red log cabin held up by chicken legs sat in the center, housing an angry old woman in the doorway, and a cat sitting in the attic window. You leaned over it to look at the details.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

The old man waved you away as he opened the book. The inside illustration were even more stunning. “Ernest Small and Blair Lent are the same person,” Mr. Le Livre explained as he carefully turned the pages, “He used a wide range of techniques, like acrylic painting, and cardboard cutouts, and colored pencils, and inks, and washes in his works.” He continued to flip through the pages with care. You smiled as you quickly read the story, watching a little girl go toe to toe with the witch. “Blair Lent has artwork all over the states,” he added as the story came to an end. “ _She_ ,” he almost spat, “is greedy.”

You tried not to smile. “She said she wants to put it on display in the library,” you said.

He snorted. “She claims, and then it’ll go missing, and she’ll have her dirty paws on it and never share it with a damn soul.” He looked up, squinted. “What if I don’t sell it to you?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. You really hadn’t thought about that. What if he didn’t? What if you walked out of here, out of your first job for Mr. Wednesday, a complete failure? What if, because of this, he just decided to drop you from the job and you were left unemployed and homeless because of a rash, off-the-cuff decision to leave Cairo?

Whoever was in the back aisles finally made an appearance and revealed himself to be a red headed young man with a brilliant smile. He set a box down on the desk next to Mr. Le Livre. “Here’s those donations, gramps,” he said, patting the box. He blew a large pink bubble gum bubble and let it pop next to the old man’s ear. “So, were we donating these anonymously or did you want the old lady to know you were donating these musty books?” Then, he winked at you.

The light bulb clicked.

“What if you made a generous donation of this beautiful work of art to the library in your name?” you asked. Mr. Le Livre turned his very annoyed glare to you. You tapped your fingers on the mat. “An…anonymous donation of such a book could be swept under the rug if it goes missing, but if it’s something from a citizen of the city, something that people would be very proud to see on display?” You fished around for the words, desperate to come up with something, anything, that could convince him. “It would be more talked about and taken more seriously if the book just happened to vanish,” you stuttered. You hunched your shoulders around your ears and smiled. “She wouldn’t get to keep the book for herself.”

The glare vanished, replaced by a growing smirk. The young man waggled his eyebrows at you before disappearing once against into the stacks of books. Mr. Le Livre picked up the book. “I’ll even write a note.” He nodded at the novel by your elbow. “And you can keep that as a gift.”

“Are you sure?” you asked. You patted the book, then frowned. “No, let me at least pay for this one. I insist.”

“You’re doing me a favor by ensuring that that insufferable woman doesn’t get what she wants,” he said, glancing up. Something far older flashed in his eyes and you swallowed. Just who were you talking to? “I’m the one who is insisting.” He tucked _Baba Yaga_ into a bubble wrapped sleeve. “Stay here. I need to write a proper note.” He shuffled away and disappeared in an office to your left. You hugged your new book and glanced around the desk. There, by the name plate, was a small stack of business cards. You took one.

“He’s got a different name, you know.” You jumped when the young man reappeared, looking up to find him unrolling some tape to close up the box. You clutched the card in your hand. The young man wiggled his fingers, nodding towards it when you didn’t move. “C’mon. Give it.” You handed it over. First, he wrote two names in English, and beneath it he wrote careful script you didn’t recognize. He circled the second one, Ninurta. “Me,” he said as he handed it back. You took another card. He patted the box. “Think you and your leprechaun boyfriend out there can take this box with you to the library?” he asked. He tilted his head and smirked. “As a favor?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you automatically grumbled. Then, you whispered, “Thought you didn’t wanna be in debt to me.”

“He doesn’t,” he said, motioning towards the office. He leaned his arms on the box and set his chin on top of them. “You’re far too cute not to owe anything to.”

Mr. Le Livre returned with a folded piece of parchment. He slid it into the bubble wrap envelope, sealed it, and handed it to you. The red head picked up the box. “I hope she chokes on this,” Mr. Le Livre said. You gathered your books and your business cards and headed back outside.

“’bout time,” Sweeney called as you held open the door. He frowned at Ninurta, who grinned and set the box down by the car.

As Ninurta headed back inside, he gave you another once over and practically purred, “Be seein’ you.”

You turned away from the shop to face Sweeney, flustered with a face so hot you thought your skin would melt off. “What the fuck was that?” he slowly asked, though not really directing the question at you.

You cleared your throat. “So, he gave me the book for free,” you whispered, embarrassed. You opened the back seat and asked, “Can you grab this?” Sweeney practically tossed the box inside. “I now have four thousand dollars that I need to deposit into the bank.”

“You should keep the cash,” Sweeney grunted, kicking the door shut, “What’s with the box?”

“I think they were gods?”

“No shit. What’s with the box?”

You looked up at him. He flicked the butt of his cigarette across the sidewalk. “The guy asked me to take it to the library, since we’re going there,” you said. You opened the passenger’s side door and flopped into the seat, still hugging the books to your chest, struggling to realize what happened, realizing that you were richer than you ever had been before. You took a deep breath and looked at the clock on the dashboard as Sweeney climbed into the car. “We should get over there before it gets any later,” you said, “We told her we’d have it there by the afternoon.”

“How did you get it for free?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

You tilted your head. “A little,” you hugged the book and smiled, “Word play.”

Sweeney barked out a laugh. You thought he’d like that.

You worked with the other librarian as Mrs. Friday read over Mr. Le Livre’s note for the sixth time. She paced the length of the desk, her steps growing heavier and angrier with every pass. You thought she was growling by the time _Baba Yaga_ had been processed into the Wetland Library’s database under Mr. Le Livre’s name.

Sweeney watched it all from the doors with a shit eating grin. Was this payback for her calling him Mr. Wednesday’s bitch? You thought it might be.

“Dammit,” cursed Mrs. Friday as she turned to you. You looked up, quickly pocketing the bottle of glue the other librarian had been more than happy to give you. Mrs. Friday tossed the note over the side of desk. “Dammit!”

“I trust this means I’ve completed my favor to you?” you slowly asked.

She snapped her head towards you, glaring from behind her glasses. You wondered if you would burst into flames. When you didn’t, you fidgeted, waiting for her answer. She sighed and nodded and waved a hand. “Yes, it is, you’re done.” She crossed her arms. “I’m in your debt,” she added with a grumble.

You plucked a business card for the library from the desk, then walked past her. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“I’ll be waiting for you to cash in your favor before he does,” she replied. She grabbed your arm before you left. “You’re good,” she murmured. “If he ever lets you go, you should contact me.” She slipped you an old catalogue card with her number and her name, then released you.

You took a bag from Sweeney. He slung the other over his shoulder and followed you towards the door. “That,” he said as he pushed them open, “Was the best damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

You snorted and started towards the car. Tucked into the door handle was a note. You pulled it free, unfolding it as you slung your bag into the back seat. Sweeney frowned as he tossed your other bag next to it. “What’s that?” he asked. You sat in the front and unfolded it.

“An address in Glencoe, Illinois,” you said, holding up the paper.

Sweeney snatched it, frowning. “Another one?” He looked around outside of the car, staring at something you couldn’t see, then shut the door. “I’ll take you.”

“What about Indiana?”

“Fuck Indiana,” he grumbled. A raven cawed somewhere on the street. You jumped. Sweeney leaned out the window. “Fuck you!”

You took back the paper and sighed. “How far away is that, do you think?” you asked as the car pulled away from the curb. “We’ll need to get gas. Something to eat.” You glanced down at your wallet, then at the envelope. You wondered if you’d be able to pull all the money out of your bank account but decided against it. You’d only do it if or when you didn’t have cash anymore.

“Avoiding the large cities and major roadways?” he asked, looking over. You tilted your head at that and thought about buying an atlas. “About twelve hours.” You turned to him. “I’ll drive it.”

“Or I can,” you replied. He glanced over but said nothing.

You two stopped for gas in a few hours south of Watertown, where you picked up snacks and drinks and an atlas. You took over driving from there. While at the gas station, Sweeney had swiped a bottle of whiskey from somewhere, you weren’t sure where. He slouched back and drank from it as you drove and the sun set.

“Where’d you learn to drive?” you asked when the bottle was about a quarter empty.

Sweeney’s head lolled in your direction. He capped the bottle and let it roll by his feet as he said, “Around.”

“That’s not an answer.” He shrugged and slouched further in the seat. You checked the gas. You’d still have quite a while before you needed to stop. “Sweeney?” He grunted. “How long have you been here?”

The drunken haze that had settled over him soured the longer he stared out at the dark road. “A long time,” he murmured. He reached between his legs and adjusted the seat, shoving it as far back as possible. “Too long,” he added. He grabbed the bottle from the floor and settled back, slouched and scrunched in the seat. He unscrewed the cap and took long pulls of whiskey, until the bottle was a third empty, then half, then two-thirds. You frowned as you cast worried glances at him but said nothing. “You wanna hear a story?” he mumbled. His accent and the alcohol made his words almost impossible to hear.

You turned down the air conditioning and glanced at the time, then pulled over onto the shoulder of the two-way highway you traveled. It was quiet. You hadn’t seen another car for hours. “Sure,” you said as you put the car in park. Twisting the screwdriver Sweeney had shoved into the key slot, you turned off the car and sat back. “What’s the story?”

He drained the bottle, sat back, spread himself out as much as he possibly could. You waited. He stared ahead at the dark sky and the bright stars. “Long time ago,” he slurred, “A pretty girl let me play with her boobies in the woods.”

You sighed. “Sweeney.”

“’s important,” he insisted, glancing over.

“You playing with her boobies isn’t important,” you disagreed.

His face split in a drunken grin. “It was important then,” he said. He thumped his head back against the head rest. “She told my fortune,” he snorted, “Shit fortune.”

You watched him. His eyes searched the skies for something. “What was it?” you whispered.

He pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket, lit it before it even touched his lips. The scent was cloying in the heat building up in the car. “Said I’d….be undone and abandoned west of the sunrise,” he took another deep breath, exhaled a thick ring of smoke, “And that a dead woman’s bauble would seal my fate.” He looked up. His eyes were wet. He worked his jaw from side to side and sucked on his teeth. “Here I am, a shell of a man I may have been, far from home because a girl couldn’t leave her stories behind.” He tilted the cigarette up and opened the door, spitting it at the ground before he climbed out.

You scrambled to undo your seat belt and followed him, double checking to make sure the doors were unlocked.

“Brought here because monks decided to go and change our stories, and the Church took our lands, and some bastard thought to curse me mad for defendin’ what was mine,” he drawled, continuing on without pause. You stood next to him. He stared out at the fields that lined the thin road and sighed. “I used to be a king once,” he whispered, “Then a bird. Then a madman.” He shook his head, turned to you. “’s all I remember.”

As drunk and exhausted as he must have been, he still stood tall, shoulders back, towering against the stary sky, illuminated by the glow of the full moon high above him.

Sweeney, a king?

Staring at him, his hair brass in the moonlight, his eyes wet and hard and dark, you found it something you could really believe in, and grasped the idea with both hands.

He looked away and rolled his neck like he was working a kink from his shoulders. The belief sank into his skin and settled like it had finally come home.

“A king is still a king in the eyes of myths, legends, and histories,” you whispered, “No matter how mad.”

He sniffed. “Let’s get back on the road,” Sweeney rasped, “Still got a long way ta go.” You nodded and tucked his broken memory into the back of your mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually dont have much to add on this chapter!! Only that I hope that you guys enjoyed this chapter, especially the soft parts of it!! If you guys have any questions about the gods that appear, please let me know!! :D


	5. ...and the Blood of War

You drove through Chicago’s streets, making your way towards Glencoe to the north at two under the speed limit. The further you went, the more you stressed: the houses were getting nicer, the cars newer, the stores fancier. You finally pulled over in a shopping center parking lot when you saw a Tesla and patted Sweeney. He stirred.

You slapped his chest and shouted, “Wake up!”

He shot up, grunting, glancing around wildly until his eyes landed on you. He slumped back against his seat and groaned, “Fuck off.”

“We’re here.” You opened the door. Grabbing your bags, you stood by a parking lot light and pulled out the note, glancing up at the shopping center ahead of you. The town looked fancy enough to invite tourists, so the mall might have a place to buy a map.

Or they might throw you out after one look at Sweeney, who was finishing wiping away any prints that may have been on or in the car. He shoved his hair back and looked around, tucking a cigarette behind his ear.

A woman trailed after her husband and two children, tilting her head as she raked her eyes over Sweeney’s form. You both stared after her, you a little more confused than your current partner in crime, who was grinning when you looked up at him. You smacked his chest with your atlas as you walked ahead then shoved the book into your bag. It took some work: the bag was already stuffed with books.

“We’re not here for your dick,” you said as you walked.

“We could be,” he pointed out. You looked up in time to see another woman, an older one, pause in loading her car to watch Sweeney walk past.

You looked up at him, then around as a group of young women and two men whispered to each other. “It’s like they’ve never seen a crazy homeless person before,” you said to yourself, amazed.

“That’s not why they’re whisperin’, sweetheart,” said Sweeney, voice stuffed with smug satisfaction. Then he frowned, turning to you as the insult sunk in.

You slugged his arm while grinding out, “Don’t call me sweetheart!”

He stumbled right into a woman with braided bun, who looked up and gave you both a dazzling smile. It immediately turned bashful as her eyes fell on Sweeney. “I am so sorry,” she called, her voice tinged with a fading accent. She wore a sweater and a pair of cute shorts, obviously wanting to look nice but not wanting to put much effort into it. You couldn’t blame her. It was creeping into late afternoon when you two had past the first sign for Chicago. You didn’t know what time it was now. “I didn’t even see you there!” she exclaimed, as though it was she that ran into Sweeney.

He knelt to pick up the bag she had dropped. “The fault is mine,” he said as he slowly stood, eyes dragging up her body until they finally met her gaze. He towered over her. She shifted, swallowing audibly. “Can I help you with those?” he asked, motioning to the bags behind her. She turned. Her shorts hugged her hips and just barely peeked out from beneath her sweater. Sweeney tilted his head, visually tracing her thighs, straightening when she turned back to him and nodded and squeaked out a small please.

“Sweeney,” you groaned. You didn’t have time for this. You need a map, and maybe a motel, and then to find out where in the world you were going and why.

The woman jumped. She hadn’t even realized you were there!

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she stuttered. She looked between you and Sweeney, who was hovering close to her while loading the bags into her car. His eyes flicked over her hands, which fluttered near her face, and you followed his gaze, then rolled your eyes. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “Your boyfriend, he was—”

“He is not my boyfriend,” you clearly stated, “In fact, you can have him.”

Her face must have burned because she curled her fingers against her cheeks. She glanced at Sweeney again, cleared her throat, and focused on you. Her eyes darted over your clothes.

“You’re not from around here, are you, sweetheart?”

Sweeney clicked his tongue. “Sweetheart is a nickname that is off limits for that one,” he murmured. The woman looked up at him. He grasped the handle of the trunk just above his head, effectively bending himself over her as he said, “We just got to town, my friend and I. May need a place to stay.” His tongue darted out over his bottom lip. The poor woman, you thought she would turn into a puddle of horny goop. You would be, too, if you weren’t so annoyed with his sudden attitude change. “Could you point us to one?” he whispered.

“I have a spare room,” she stuttered. She cleared her throat, swallowed, looked at her designer shoes. “My ex-husband just moved out, there’s more than enough room for you to stay.” Her head snapped up to you. “For both of you!” she quickly added.

“’d be more than happy to return this favor tenfold, Miss…” Sweeney leaned closer to her, his face a breath’s distance from hers.

“Mary,” she whispered, “Mary Johnson.”

“Mary.” He said her name so reverently that you almost fell for his charm. Almost. Remembering how blind drunk he had been during the drive was enough to counterbalance it. Especially when you recalled the burping.

She nodded. The shyness was melting from her face. “I can take you there now.” She brushed past him, hand almost lingering on his arm, then scurried around to the driver’s side door.

You shook your head as Sweeney shut the trunk with a smug grin. “What is wrong with you?” you asked him, following him to the passenger’s side to climb into the back seat. You swung both of your bags in before you.

He smirked. “I know my strengths.”

“You’re an absolute monster and, one day, this lucky streak is going to run out.”

He kissed his fingertips, blew it towards you, and produced the most elegant gesture that could accompany a chef’s kiss: he flipped you off.

You pulled the door shut.

Mary was a wealthy woman, if her home was anything to go by: four bedrooms, four and a half bathrooms, a massive dining room and kitchen, a den (whatever that meant), a family room, a pool. She said she was in real estate, and you found that to be true as she absently gave you details of the house that you didn’t ask for. She ordered food for all three of you, something that she seemed to have a habit of since her divorce (so she said). She even told you to help yourself to anything in the house, and to excuse any strange things you might see.

“Not strange!” she corrected with an embarrassed laugh. “I’m planning to rent out the house and have the rooms set up for renters, you know?”

You nodded as you gulped down some of the freshest water you had ever tasted. She was such a lovely woman, from her welcoming in strangers to her home to feeding and offering to do your laundry and almost any other request you had!

But you should have known from the positively thirsty looks she was flashing Sweeney during the few hours you were in their company that it would not be a quiet night.

That was hours ago.

Hours.

“Oh, _fuck_!”

The words in front of you became unfocused as you stared blankly at the pages. The room that Mary had given you for the night was on the opposite side of her obscenely large house, on another floor entirely, and you could STILL hear her moans, hear the bed thumping against the wall, hear Sweeney’s sinful grunts and groans as he fucked her into next week. You glanced around, fumbling through your bag for anything that could help. When you found your phone, you scrambled to open a music app. Then, you turned it up as loud as you could.

“You like that, don’t you?”

“God, yes!”

“Like when I—”

You released a screech and fell back on the bed, covering your face with a pillow as you released the pent up frustration that had been building up in your body since Mary had invited Sweeney up to her room _hours_ ago.

It had been hours, holy fuck. What was Sweeney’s stamina like?

(You would NOT entertain the thought of Sweeney kneeling behind you, gripping your hair, grinding against your ass as he groaned your name. You refused.)

You scoured the room until you found a pair of headphones stuffed into the desk drawer and cheered as you plugged them into your phone.

The sounds of Sweeney fucking like a god damn animal disappeared under the crooning voice of Hozier. You sat heavily at the desk and picked up your book. You’d seen signs on your way to Mrs. Johnson’s house – in windows, in front yards, on cars, mailboxes, light posts – advertising Lemnos Security. The name sounded familiar, rang far too many bells for it to be a coincidence, so you vowed to look it up once you were settled: fed, showered, hair brushed, teeth brushed, basically just one good bed or a healthy dose of melatonin away from sleeping.

Settled as you were, you had cracked open all of the mythology books you had brought along with you until you found it – Lemnos, home to the cult of Hephaestus. You circled it and opened a notebook you had wedged in with your books, writing down the information that you would look up – a long hand version of your journal that you would shred or burn or ruin in a cup of water once you were finished. Lemnos Security was owned by Ignius Tatum, a local technical genius who was married to the popular Instagram and YouTube star Rose Tatum.

You glanced at the desktop next to you, one that had a sticky note with the username, password, and a small note: “Please use me! You’re more than welcome to!”

You glanced at the bedroom door and bitterly thought that applied to more than one thing in the house. Shaking the thought away – and mentally apologizing, you didn’t need to shame Mary Johnson for getting some dick that she obviously craved – you shook the mouse until the computer awoke, typed in the password, and pulled up google.

Both Ignius and Rose had their own Wiki pages.

Ignius’s page showed a picture of him – a shorter man with dark hair styled out of his eyes and a suit that was cut to his figure. His shoulders sloped towards the camera, giving him a confident air. Scrolling through showed you that he had inherited both the company and his name from his father, who inherited it from his father, and so on and so on ad nauseum, until you were presented with the current CEO of the company; he brought the company into the 21st century with state of the art surveillance equipment that utilized facial recognition and operated on an artificial intelligence system; and was never seen out in public without his beautiful wife on his arm.

You clicked her name.

The first thing that caught your eye was the giant blue link labeled ‘Affair’. The second was her picture. She was beautiful – short dark hair cut in a wavy bob, bright eyes staring out as she smiled for the camera. Beneath her picture were links to her YouTube page, her Instagram page, and an address that looked familiar.

It was listed as her home address.

“Ignius and Rose will often host parties, dinners, and balls at their beautiful Glencoe mansion,” you read, “As well as give tours of their glamorous collection of original Greek and Roman art, all housed in the west wing of their home.”

You patted around until you pulled up the note you had received in Watertown, holding it up underneath the address on the page.

They matched.

“Son of a bitch,” you murmured.

You were supposed to go to their house.

The house you were in shook with a thud as something heavy hit the floor. You glanced up. Laughter and loud, erotic moans cut through your music. You turned it up louder and stared at your phone to find a different song, then frowned.

You had a message from an unknown number. Your brow furrowed and your frown deepened as you remembered that no one was supposed to know you had your phone on this trip. Your sister knew, sure, but she was the only one. You were on a technology free job. Sweeney had been vocal about that when Mary said you could use her Netflix. Did that stop you? Fuck, no. Between him fucking like a machine and your books, you would have gone absolutely insane in the first twenty minutes of being in that house if you didn’t have technology.

You opened the strange message. It contained the address, a seven-digit code, and a time, along with the words, “Do this and you’ll be rewarded in more than favors.”

You backed out of the messages.

Your phone vibrated.

You clicked opened the new message. It was a screen shot of the image you just read, with a check mark and the time all next to the dreaded ‘Read At’ phrase. A string of smiling emojis and winking faces followed it.

You flipped your phone over and leaned back in your chair.

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” you groaned.

Upstairs, Sweeney said the exact same thing.

You stood for another nice, long (cold) shower, then shuffled off to bed.

(Sometime later in the night, Sweeney felt the crawl of a prayer over his skin – of his name whispered somewhere in the dark – and he stirred for only a moment, let it settle somewhere intimate, and fell back into a deep sleep.)

Something kicked your bed. “Get up,” croaked a familiar voice coated in exhausted contentment. You peeled the eye mask – complimentary and freshly washed, according to the sign on the nightstand – from your face and glared at Sweeney. He stared you down over a cup of coffee, which he downed quicker than straight whiskey. “Time to go.”

He smelled clean, what the fuck?

You sat up, rubbing your face, shoving your hair off your forehead with frustrated pats. “What time is it?” You squinted at him. His hair was even done, the longer bits swept up and back out of his face, showcasing the closely shaved sides that went down an inch or two and the bare skin after it that went down to his ears. It was a good look. You stored it away in your memory for the days (and dreams) that you wished he’d take a damn shower. Though you did note that he was doing it more often.

“Just past Mary Johnson leavin’ so it's time to get the fuck outta dodge,” he answered. You squinted at him. He rolled his eyes. “She just fuckin’ left for work,” he explained.

“Oh.”

“So, we need to go,” he said.

Your brain made a dial-up sound as you stared at him, slowly forming words without thinking, spitting them out in a tired drawl, “Did you pimp yourself out?”

He lowered the coffee cup and groaned.

“You did.”

He kicked your bed. “Get up.”

“You took advantage of that poor lady—”

“No, I leveraged what she wanted.” He finished his coffee, then grinned. “Not a bad deal. Not the best cunt I’ve fucked—” You groaned loudly. “—But not bad.”

“God.” You finally stood to get dressed and gathered your things. You did a courtesy of leaving Mary a note thanking her for everything and that you were sorry to be leaving like you were. You shut the front door, made sure it was locked, and turned.

There was a sleek black car waiting outside.

Your phone vibrated.

The blood drained from your face.

Sweeney stared at the car, not even looking at you. “Do you,” he said slowly, clicking something that you didn’t dare turn to look at, “Have your fuckin’ cell phone on ya?” He looked at you. You made a point not to look back. “The one you said you didn’t have anymore?”

You fumbled the accursed thing when you finally pulled it out of your bag, unlocking it under Sweeney’s burning glare. In front of you, from the unknown number, was a screen shot of messages under the name of Mary, with answering messages from a Rose. At least that confirmed who the number belonged to.

The first was a chain of messages from Mary, all of which detailed her night – and morning? – with Sweeney in graphic detail. You tilted your head, glanced up at Sweeney, tilted your head more, trailed your eyes down. His eyes flicked from your face, to your phone, to your face, to the button of his pants where your eyes had lingered. You jumped forward as he tried to snatch your phone.

“Gimmie that!” he snarled.

_“I have never had a night like that before – I’ve never been that wet, I’ve never squirted!”_

“What did you do?” you asked, a little awed by the sheer strength and flexibility some of the texts detailed. The door of the car opened and you slid in, shoving your bags in before you. Sweeney climbed in after you, awkwardly trying to read your screen over your shoulder. You leaned away from him, shoving your feet against his thigh to push him away. The car started moving.

At the end of the screen shots was a message from Rose herself, asking you, _“Is this giant dirty magic dick lumberjack with you?”_

“Stop shovin’ me into the door!” Sweeney snapped as you continued to push against him, while he continued to try and look at your screen.

“Stop trying to read my phone!” you shouted back.

He lunged, wrapping his hands around your phone and around your hands, grunting as you pulled your hands back and hit the window. “Give it ta me!”

“Let go!”

“Didn’t old _Grimnir_ tell you—”

“Ima bite you, you fuck!”

“—Not to have this?!” He jerked his hands back, kneeling between your knees, pinning one of your legs against the back of the seat. You slid further down, shrieking at him as you tried to take your phone back. You yanked his hands forward, smashing his knuckles against the door handle, and bit down onto his wrist. “FUCK!”

“Let go!” you shouted.

“You bit me!” he squealed. You bit down on his hand again as he tried to pull the phone back. This time, he shoved his hand against your mouth, subsequently punching you, knocking your head back against the door. You lifted your free knee and shoved it into his side. “Let go of me!” he screeched. You pressed your foot against his thigh, scrunching up further in the seat as he towered over you. You sunk your teeth in as he tried to pull his hand away. His knee dug into your hip, his hand shoved harder against your face, smashing your nose with the back of his wrist. You snarled, swung your elbow, felt it connect with his chin. He growled back, shifted his weight as the car suddenly stopped.

The door you leaned against opened, sending your head flopping backwards, your mouth opening and releasing Sweeney’s hand in shock. Blood dripped down the back of your throat, and you felt the warmth of a sucker punched nose gathering on your face.

Even upside down and a little shocked, Rose Tatum looked stunning. You twisted, turning right side up, and instead of a proper hello – you had blown any proper introduction out the window when she opened the door to you and Sweeney fighting – you said, “Has anyone told you that you look like Charlize Theron?”

She tilted her head. You touched your nose, winced, socked Sweeney in the chest as you tumbled out of the car. “I’ve heard it a few times,” she admitted as she caught you. You pulled your bags out as Sweeney squirmed around and climbed out. She tilted her head the other way, slowly trailing her eyes up him from his shoes to his now mussed hair. He combed his fingers through it but didn’t meet her gaze. He didn’t even look up from the ground.

You crossed your arms as you shifted your weight back on your heels. This was a far cry from his flirting the day before. You wondered what had changed. You looked at Rose and saw she was starting to smile.

“Coward,” she said.

“That’s uncalled for,” Sweeney replied, not looking up. He rubbed the spot you had elbowed him. It was starting to swell.

She lifted her chin, then turned and waved for you to follow her. You threw one more glance at Sweeney before stepping into her shadow. “It’s a good thing you’re cute, leprechaun,” she said. The doors opened before her. “Or else I’d have to take care of you for taking advantage of my dear little Mary the way you did.”

Sweeney didn’t protest, just followed at your back. You looked back to see him rubbing his neck and staring at his boots.

It took you passing a very famous and familiar painting for you to finally realize just who you were walking with. Ignius Tatum’s wife. Hephaestus’s wife.

Aphrodite.

You swiped your nose again as embarrassment pumped through you. You looked a right mess and you knew it, and all in the presence of the goddess of love?

You cleared your throat.

“I hear you’re offering favors,” she said over her shoulder.

“I am,” you replied once your face was clear of blood. Your shirt sleeve was stained, but that was fine – there was a bleach spot on it anyway. “Favors in exchange for something in the future.”

“A debt?” She turned to you so quickly that you stumbled to avoid running into her. She was grinning. It wasn’t friendly. Sweeney mumbled something behind you. “You expect me to have you do me a favor, and want to call in a debt later?”

“That’s…” You cleared your throat. “That’s what favors are.”

She tilted her head. She seemed to be calculating something or determining if you were being honest. Then she nodded. She turned around and threw open a door to her right. You knew who was behind that door – you’d done your fucking research dammit. You knew the stories like the back of your hand. You even knew the name he went by now.

He was buttoning his shirt as the door opened, glancing up to see who was intruding. Martin Werther looked exactly like his picture – which, after researching because holy shit was his face familiar, looked exactly like a comic book engineer turned war contractor – from the old fashion mustache to the style of his hair. He grinned, winked, and pulled his suspenders over his shoulders.

“Ah, this bastard.” Sweeney leaned against the door frame with a cigarette between his lips.

Martin waggled his eyebrows. “I wish I could say I was excited to see you,” he said to Sweeney. He picked up his suit jacket by the collar and crossed the room to you, taking your hand in his. “But you,” he said with a swift kiss to your knuckles, “You, I’m definitely excited to see.”

Rose sighed something wistful. “My husband has guards around the place,” she mused as Martin released you. “We—” You snapped your head up. We? Two? That was plural, that meant plural favors! “Need you to get Martin off the property without being caught.”

Your brain dial toned a second time as you looked between them, and, suddenly, you felt less like an adult and more like an adolescent trying to comprehend a situation. “What?” you dumbly asked.

“They want us to sneak him out,” Sweeney grumbled. You slapped your hand back against his chest. He grunted, swatted your hand, and huffed.

“Oh.” You blinked. “You have Lemnos cameras?” you asked. You were pulling out your phone as Rose nodded. Lemnos. You knew that name was familiar. “Alright, uh…” You moved towards the window. “Is there’s a back door? Or a rarely used entrance?” You set your phone on the windowsill as you continued to look around. There was a guard out there – oh no, wait, three, two from one direction, one from another, all of them armed. The phone finally connected, started ringing, the sound echoing out in the hall as you placed it on speaker. “Why do you have armed guards?” you mumbled absently.

“Do you know who I am?” Rose asked, “Who my husband is?”

“Maybe if you weren’t sucha shitty person,” Sweeney commented.

“You’re hot, but not hot enough to speak to me like that, leprechaun,” Rose snapped.

“No, like, he has a point.” You glanced over your shoulder, looking at her, then Martin. “This doesn’t help things.” You titled your head. “It’s kinda awful.”

Your sister called your name. You snapped your head towards your phone. Picking it up, you knelt on the windowsill and pressed your forehead against the glass, trying to spot a camera. “Are you there?”

“I’m here!” you said.

“Is everything okay?” asked your sister.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine!” you said. It wasn’t a lie. You thumped your head against the glass. “Say, can you do me a favor?” She said yes. “I’m assuming the cameras at Ignius Tatum’s house are Lemnos, right? His wife says they are.”

“Why?” she asked. Then, she added, “Are you at his fucking house?” You heard keys tapping away and a mouse clicking. The cameras on the concrete decorative pillars that surrounded the wall turned. “Why are you at his fucking house?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Tell me.”

“Kinda has an NDA attached,” you lied. You shrugged and waved at the blinking red light. The guards walking below them never even noticed. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway,” you mumbled.

“No shit, you’re at my boss’s boss’s boss’s house,” she snapped. You thumped your head against the window again. She groaned. “This better not get me fired.” The cameras moved back to their original positions slowly, carefully, as though they had just been checking something. “What do I need to do?”

After looking over all of the cameras, you sister – a security analyst and technical genius in her own right – informed you that the best place to sneak out of the mansion and off the estate was in a very thin strip of land that zigzagged across the massive yard. She sent you an aerial picture of the estate (taken from a secured folder, you noticed in the somewhat terrible picture she took of her screen) and mapped out the exact route you would need to take.

“Margin of error is about two feet on either side of you,” she stated. “If you don’t wanna be seen on the cameras, you need to stick to that route exactly.”

“And if we don’t?” you asked.

“Then that asshole you’re sneaking out is as good as done.”

The map started at a very particular window and ended in the middle of the iron fence that stretched between the concrete pillars. The path was just off a lovely stone walkway that wound through a garden and was littered with sculptures.

The three guards you had seen before disappeared around the corner of the house and out of sight.

You opened the window. “Now or never,” you said. You glanced back at Martin and Sweeney. “You two wanna follow me?”

Sweeney cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, then ducked through the window. “I’ll cover for ya,” he said without prompting. You stared after him, wondering what he meant. Your heart stuttered as he jogged around the corner the guards had gone around and started shouting.

Martin patted your back. “That’s our cue.” You dove through the window, holding your phone carefully, looking up every so often to make sure you were on the right path. Sweeney’s swearing was getting fainter, and Martin’s hands were getting low on your back as he followed close behind you. “You’re pretty good at this favor thing,” he said in your ear. You shifted your path and continued. “Wouldn’t mind having someone like you sayin’ my name every night.”

“Not interested,” you droned.

“Wasn’t talkin’ about god worship, darlin’,” he responded. You turned around at the fence, looking up to meet his gaze. He lifted his eyebrows. His eyes danced down your body. “Wouldn’t mind stealing you away for a while,” he whispered, “If you wanted.”

He was handsome, you’d give him that, but you knew the myths of Aphrodite, and the goddess had once launched a thousand ships when she had a good day. You didn’t really wanna see her on a bad one, no matter how awful the need to fuck someone – or something – was becoming.

That, and he was a technically a client. That alone was one giant fucking no, which you firmly said.

Martin shrugged. The no didn’t stop his hand from wandering into your back pocket and giving your ass a squeeze as he left his card with you. “Help a guy up then?” he said, motioning to the fence. You balanced against the it and cupped your hands, grunting as you hoisted Martin up high enough to grab the top of the fence. He swung one leg over, then the other, dangled, and dropped. He shoved his hands through the slats and laced his fingers together. “Alright now, hun. Your turn.”

You wrapped your hands around the posts and set your foot in his hand. “Why does everyone feel the need to give me pet names?” you asked yourself. You grabbed the top of the fence and swung your leg over.

Gunshots rang out over the estate. You whipped around, precariously straddling the towering iron fence, Martin’s hands – Ares’s hands – came up to your thigh and calf to catch you if you fell towards him.

“C’mon, baby, you’re almost there,” Martin mumbled. He patted your leg.

“No, wait,” you said, waving your hand, watching the corner of the house that the gunshots had come from. You could see a tree that had been shot swaying. One of the branches fell. You swallowed.

And suddenly, there he was, stumbling around the corner of the house, bloody and battered and grinning like a madman. A guard limped after him, tripped, and fell. Sweeney looked up as he jogged towards the fence. His eye was swelling, his lip was bleeding, and the grin on his face froze as he came closer to you. His eyes stared past you. Yours, on the other hand, focused on the hole in his jacket. Sweeney hauled himself onto the fence and over it in three fluid moves. Martin moved back to avoid being landed on. You swung your other leg over and dropped down. Sweeney’s hands caught you around your rib cage.

You immediately found the hole in his coat and shoved your finger in it.

Sweeney set you down as you opened his coat, finger still caught in the hole, and patted his chest. “Didn’t think you’d be fingerin’ my hole,” he smugly murmured. Martin snorted. You dug your knuckles into his side, where he was bleeding – why was he bleeding – and the cockiness gave way to a pained groan. “Fuck…!”

“Did you get shot?”

“What?” He looked down. You yanked on his shirt, snapping open the buttons, and jumped as something hot tumbled into your hand. You yelped and dropped it, stepping back to look at your feet.

In the grass lay a mass of gold and metal. You picked it up carefully, hissing and juggling it while your fingers got used to the heat. You were able to pry it apart and found it to be a coin, a gold coin, warped to twice its size and ruined by a hole in the middle. The bullet fell out of a second coin, which was bent in an awkward bowl shape, the bottom much larger than the top. The sun face on the coin shown from the curved bottom half.

Martin whistled. You rolled the three items around in your palm. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” the god of war mused.

You rolled your eyes and curled your fingers around them, shoving the things into your pocket. Sweeney grinned. Your disgust deepened.

Martin gave you a freebee – put you up in a ritzy hotel for the night and sent a doctor to patch you and Sweeney up. Mostly Sweeney. The doctor just checked your nose to make sure it wasn’t broken. Sweeney, on the other hand, was a mess. While he hadn’t been shot in the chest like you thought, he had been shot – the bullet went straight through his side, missing anything important. It had been what you had dug your fist into when he decided to mouth off. His nose was also broken – the doctor set it – and his cheek was busted (from you, you proudly pointed out to the irate Irishman). His hand was littered with boxers’ fractures, old and new, and the doctor offered to wrap his hands but Sweeney waved him off. His eye was bruised and swollen, and would be for a few days, but it wasn’t awful.

Sweeney’s knee bounced all through the doctor’s careful examination. His eyes darted around the room and his fingers – when they weren’t occupied – drummed against the edge of the plush couch he sat on.

The doctor left.

Sweeney launched from his seat and paced the spacious room. You watched him from your spot in an overstuffed chair. You rolled the damaged coins around in your palm. You had tossed the bullet when you found that you didn’t want a squished and ugly piece of metal when you had two strangely beautiful and equally damaged gold coins.

The man before you swung his jacket off, then the blue shirt. He clenched his fists as he walked back past you. His arms flexed. His shoulders rolled forward. The muscles in his back rippled. You noticed the blood was already gone from his knuckles. You sat up. He punched the air a few times as he turned back around and snarled, “What a fight. Too short.” He twisted his chin up and cracked his neck. “Too fuckin’ short.”

“Sweeney?” you called. You set the coins on the table.

He turned towards the door like a fucking predator homing in on his prey.

Your stomach dropped. You had three seconds to keep him from walking out that door and doing something incredibly stupid, something incredibly bloody and dangerous and all because he was pent up and absolutely manic and you said the first thing you thought might please him: “Teach me to fight!”

His head lifted. He rolled his shoulders back and, for a moment, you weren’t staring at Sweeney but someone else, someone older, someone ancient who ached for the blood on his hands and screams of the battlefield in his ears.

But when he turned to you, he was Sweeney. A little rumbled, a little beaten, a little grimy, like he often was when he had visited you during those first months. His chest rose and fell with his heavy pants. You thought his eyes had changed, but the longer you stared, the more you realized that his pupils were just fully blown.

“Or I have Mary’s number,” you stuttered.

“You wanna fight?” he said, latching onto your first suggestion, stepping closer. “Throw a few punches if a god gets handsy with ya?”

“That’s oddly specific,” you pointed out.

He shoved the couch aside with a kick. You pressed your lips together, inhaling slow and deep as he almost flipped the coffee table with how hard he pushed it away. Heat settled low in your belly and you really wished it didn’t. Sweeney jerked his head towards the bed. “Help me with the mattress.”

You kicked your shoes off and did just that.

Every hotel resident in your hall was either concerned, angry, or awed at the sounds that came out of your room throughout the night. Most complaints made to the front desk were about the loud and rough sex that was happening in your room (which, sadly, wasn’t the case but it wasn’t far from your mind as you were slammed against the mattress for the third time with Sweeney’s knee between your thighs and his semi-hard cock pressing into your hip), while only one was a worried old woman three doors down that wondered if you were getting murdered (you had screamed because Sweeney had picked you up and flipped you over his shoulder, which had you falling against the mattress from seven feet up and absolutely terrified you).

But, when five a.m. rolled around, you were sweaty and exhausted and lying sprawled on a king-sized mattress on the floor with Sweeney, panting and staring at the ceiling and grinning from ear to ear.

Then you yawned.

And then you were out.


	6. ...and the Weight of Immortal Guilt

You dreamt of a library – the Wetland Library to be precise – but it sat alone in the middle of a bog. The sky was a blanket of colors you had only seen in pictures, dotted with stars and stretching as far as the eye could see. The library was the only thing that cut into it, a dark monolith in the watercolor. You tugged at the dried branches and vines that covered the front doors until you could push them open and walk in. Candles covered the halls and the walls and set the library ablaze with gentle flickering light. Moss carpeted the floors. You curled your toes while you walked. Plants bloomed in the corners. It smelled divine. You turned the corner, expecting to find the packed shelves but, instead, found the library empty. A single table sat in the middle with a lonely book on it.

You thought you called out hello as you wandered over. Your voice echoed to the ceiling and disappeared. No one replied.

The book was brown leather. It must have once been beautiful, you thought as you examined the spine: gold-leaf flaked off in patches, designs curved over from the front and back covers onto the spine. But someone had defaced the poor book, scratched at its cover and slapped patches of mismatching leather in so many places that the original design couldn’t be made out. A few of the patches were new, still stiff, forced into place with stitching both sloppy and expertly applied. Some of the older patches were embossed with ornate crosses. Across the whole cover, though, from one corner to another, was the name _Sweeney_ written in black marker. Beneath it were other colors of his name written in other materials like paint or pen or ink or pencil. The older ones were further up the cover, written from left to right, and said something else entirely: _Shu...?_ The word was gone under a stiff, new piece of leather. You opened the book and flipped through the pages.

Almost all of them were blank. The further into the book you went, the more text started to appear – blurry and indecipherable. One section stood out and when you glanced over it, you found it to be the story of the girl in the woods, the one with the fortune.

You flipped until you found sharp, clear text that outlined the first day he came to see you.

A lighter clicked behind you. The library was illuminated by light.

You whirled around, releasing the front cover of the book in your shock, and found Sweeney with his back to you. He was standing alone. However, shadows formed around him, stretched away from him, extended from hundreds of people you couldn’t see and filled the library with giants that had no physical form.

A voice you recognized far too late as Mr. Wednesday’s whispered in your ear, “You shouldn’t be back here.”

You shot up in bed, panting, flinching away from the voice that followed you from your dream. He wasn’t behind you. In fact, no one was behind you. The hotel room was dark, the curtains drawn, the lights out. Sweeney stirred on the mattress next to you. You drew your knees up and pressed your forehead into them and laced your fingers behind your head.

Your heart raced. Your head spun. You squeezed your eyes shut as you struggled to remember where you were, what day it was, what had happened in the past few days. It came back to you, slowly but surely, crawling back into place as your brain woke up and pulled itself away from the all too real dreamscape you had left behind.

A hand on your shoulder made you jump. You almost pulled away from it, almost rolled right off the mattress, but the hand slid down your back and its fingers curled into your shirt. Sweeney mumbled your name, still half asleep. He turned over from his sprawled-out position on the opposite side of the bed and slurred, “What is it?”

Your mind took off: he wouldn’t wanna know about your nightmare; he wouldn’t care about the whole thing; he wouldn’t want to know why the it spooked you so much; he’d make a crude joke about him being in your dream; he didn’t care; he only asked because he was supposed to.

You swallowed a lump in your throat and wondered when the last time you took your meds was.

“I had a nightmare,” you whispered. You stood. The hotel room was a mess to navigate. You waved your arms, bumped into everything imaginable, tripped over Sweeney’s leg, and threw open the curtain. (Big mistake). Both you and Sweeney yelped, turning away from the sudden assault of afternoon sunlight on your eyes. You blinked rapidly, pressed your palms into your eyes and doubled over. You were seeing spots, holy shit. You crouched and groaned as the pain of aching muscles finally hit you.

A knock startled you. Both you and Sweeney squinted through the late afternoon sun at the door. As you watched it, you saw his head swing to you as he asked, “Was that real?” The knock came again. You stood, swearing, and jumped over Sweeney’s legs as he pushed himself up and yawned. You tried to smooth your hair while you half hazardly opened the door.

Mr. Ignius Tatum looked exactly like his picture. He arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow at you and asked who you were by name. You nodded. He pushed the door open as far as it could go being half blocked by the mattress on the floor, walked in, and stared at Sweeney.

“Rough night?” he asked. His voice was deeper than you expected for a man who looked so young.

Sweeney snorted and stood, ruffling his hair. Pieces that had once been wet from sweat now curled against his forehead. “You don’t know the half of it,” he answered with a grin.

You shut the door while stuttering, “I’m sorry for the mess! He had to work out some issues.”

Ignius stepped over the mattress and took a seat in one of the chairs. “Color me surprised when I saw you on my cameras entering my home but never leaving.” You gulped. “Though, I did see some Irish muscle head antagonizing the shit out of my guards, and then beating them to a pulp.” He cocked his head at Sweeney. “I thought they shot you.”

Sweeney shrugged. “They did.”

You climbed over him carefully and sat on the couch. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry?” you tried. You scratched your cheek. “This is gonna sound rude, but why are you here?”

Ignius crossed one leg over the other. “Well, I wanted to lay eyes on the person who outwitted my system,” he shrugged one shoulder, “Though you had help. It was still rather smart doing what you did.” He sighed. “I suppose I’m in your debt for that. You showed me I had a flaw in my system.”

Your heart stuttered – did he just say he owed you favor? Did you gain three favors out of that absolutely insane ordeal? You carded your hand through your hair and whispered, “Oh.”

“Precisely.” He cast another look around the room and pushed himself up. “That was all I came for.” He wrinkled his nose at Sweeney, who rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. You tried to smile. It didn’t come out well. The shower started to run. Ignius walked to the door, opened it, and left.

Your mind was filled with a million questions but one stood out, louder than the rest as you remembered Sweeney’s drunk story. You scrambled for the door.

“Mr. Tatum,” you called, stepping out into the hall. You made sure the door didn’t lock behind you – didn't even shut all the way – then stepped further down the hall towards the man. He turned around, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. You pretended not to notice how difficult it was.

“Yes?”

You hesitated. Asking what you wanted to ask could use up the favor he owed you, especially since it could be a lot of information. But you also hadn’t been expecting to do a favor for Ignius in the first place. You glanced back at the door.

“Do you know anyone who could help with a broken memory?” you whispered.

He lifted his chin. “Odd question,” he pointed out. He crossed his arms, held his chin in his fingers as he thought. “I know one, but it’s been a very, very long time since she’s been...well...” He frowned and looked up at you, then stepped closer, “Tell me, how much do you know about the New Gods?”

You blinked. “I’m sorry, whomst?”

“Grab your things.” His eyes dropped down to your feet and rolled them. “And put on shoes. We’ll be out for a while.”

You darted back into the room. Upending your bag of books, as it was the smaller of the two bags, you threw in your notebook, your glue, your journal, your pens, your phone, your wallet, your pocket knife (you didn’t know this guy), and your envelope of cash into the bag. Then you scribbled a note, ducked into the bathroom to say bye to Sweeney and leave it on the sink, and snatched your shoes on the way back out the door. You hopped after Ignius as you shoved your feet in your sneakers.

“I am grateful for the test on my security system,” he said as he pressed the button for the elevator. You stumbled up next to him, shoving the sleeves of your old sweatshirt up your arms. His eyes cut to you as you waited. “But I loathe to be in debt to anyone.”

“Oh, you—”

“How much would it take to buy myself out of your debt?” he asked. You snapped your mouth shut and pressed your lips together, eyebrows flying up. The humble part of you wanted to say you would clear him of his debt for helping you with this. The spiteful part remembered his guards shooting at Sweeney (who, really, deserved it). The elevator opened. Ignius pulled a check book from his coat pocket as he walked in. You followed him in. “Though, I did switch the room over to my credit card before I came up,” he mused, thumping the book against his hand.

You smacked your lips together and stared at the doors as they closed. “Good thing I didn’t say anything,” you said. You watched his marred reflection in the polished doors. You thought you could see him as he really was – a man with a hunchback that sloped his shoulders, with a leg that was shorter than the other, and with arms banded with muscles so thick that he could rip the limbs from a human without breaking a sweat, or swing a hammer in a forge for hours on end. You swallowed. Distorted as it was, you could see the rage that boiled beneath the skin of the god that stood inches from you. Old rage that bubbled close to the surface. You slid your fingers up the strap of your bag and gripped it at your shoulder.

The elevator finally started to go down.

He smiled.

“You’re smart.” He tucked the check book back into his coat. “And you catch on quick. Don’t think for a moment that I would assist someone selfish.” You saw his true, but muddled, self turn his ugly head to you. “You need a job?”

“I’ve got one, thanks,” you replied.

The doors opened. Ignius stepped out first, heading for the front desk. You followed him. “I hear you’re collecting business cards,” he more asked than stated as he leaned on the desk. The woman behind it didn’t even glance up. “Here.” He held a set of three out to you, each of them a business card for one of the three gods you had met in Glencoe. You wondered why he had Martin’s. You carefully took them, sliding them in your back pocket for safe keeping. He then picked up a card for the hotel and flipped it over, producing a pen from his coat. “This is where you’ll find who you need.” His eyes flicked up. “Someone to help with a broken memory, right?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

He started to write a name, then an address. “She goes by Syne.” He clicked the pen, picked up the card, and then motioned further into the hotel. You turned around. There was a small restaurant inside, complete with a bar and a smattering of booths. Ignius picked the booth furthest from both the door and the bar. You sat down, fingers finally uncurling from the bag, arm aching from being held in one position for so long. A waiter placed two glasses of water down and asked for your drinks. You asked for a Coke. Ignius waved him off. He tented his fingers in front of him. “What all do you know?” he asked with a tinge of condescension.

You pulled the cards from your back pocket and fished out your journal. “Uh,” you droned. You took a sip of water and thanked the waiter when he returned with your drink. “Not much, honestly,” you admitted. You adjusted the cards on the table, not wanting to look into his face as you confessed to your ignorance. “I met Sweeney a few months,” you said as you opened your notebook, setting your pen on top. “Then I met a guy named Mr. Wednesday—”

Ignius snorted.

You glanced up as you set your glue on the table. “He offered me a job to go around doing favors for people and that he’d pay me. He gives me addresses, I…show up.” You opened the journal with a shrug and flipped to the As, picking the pen up as you jotted down Rose Tatum. You drew an X on the back of the business card with the glue and fit it underneath. The original paper with the address stayed wedged into the crease as you wrote down Martin’s name next. “I’ve noticed a trend of…not very human people, then again I seem to have made friends with a man I don’t quite believe to be a leprechaun, soooo…”

Ignius nodded slowly. You finally glanced up. He had lowered his hands to the table. You flipped to the Hs. “There’s a split,” he murmured. He pulled the small caddy of condiments away from the wall to his elbow, picked up a sugar packet, and set it down. “There’s the Old Gods, like…Wednesday is what he called himself?”

You nodded.

Ignius straightened the sugar packet. “There’s Old Gods like Wednesday,” he repeated, “Mr. Nancy, Mrs. Friday, Mr. Ibis and Mr. Jacquel, Bast.” You perked up at the familiar names, smiling as you glued in Ignius’s business card. He picked up a Sweet ‘n’ Low and set it next to the sugar. “Then there’s us: myself, Rose,” he worked his jaw from side to side, “Martin. A few others from the family,” he softly added. You looked up, shut your journal, and started scribbling what he had told you so far, even drawing the diagram with the sugar packets. Then, Ignius picked up a Sugar in the Raw packet and set it next to the Sweet ‘n’ Low. “And then there’s the New Gods.”

“New Gods?” you repeated.

His eyes slowly met yours in the most irritated glare you’ve ever seen. You looked down to continue your doodle. “The New Gods have been around for a while, honestly, but not as long as us. They’re modern ideas, modern…beliefs. Globalization, industry, media, technology, aliens—”

“Hold on.” You gaped at him. “Aliens?”

He smiled. It was a good smile. He adjusted in his seat and leaned towards you. “The New Gods thrive on two things: belief, as in if enough people believe in something hard enough, it’ll be real, like alien abductions, conspiracy theories, or the Mothman, or Manifest fuckin’ Destiny.” You started to laugh something high pitched, nervous, and downright manic. You really hadn’t taken your pills in a few days. Ignius continued, “The second is ritual and sacrifice, like time in front of the television, or your phone—” he pointedly glanced at your bag, “—Or blood sacrifices like murders to reenact video games, or car accidents.” You snapped your jaw shut, though the nervous giggles now bordered on terrified snickers that you tried to keep quiet. You still wrote everything down, making a note to research popular myths and legends, cryptids, and monsters.

“This is fucking insane,” you whispered.

“I can write you a letter detailing it all if you need me to,” murmured Ignis, “I’ve done a lot of research myself. Know thy enemy and all that shit.”

You practically threw your pen at the table and covered your face, leaning over your things with a groan. “What the fuck?” you groaned, “What the fuck!”

Ignius leaned back, shaking his head, giving you a moment to process. He felt bad, he really did. He knew what it was like to be forced into a situation where he didn’t have all the facts, and the moment he realized that you were in that boat, he wanted to make sure that all of your doors were open. Fuck, he’d make sure the windows were open, that the walls of the fucking house were knocked down and you were standing in the middle with all of the facts laid out before you. He crossed his arms.

“Why are you telling me this?” you grumbled into your palms.

He dropped his head back against the booth. “I like you,” he said. You looked up between your fingers. “And seeing you here with only one duck in your line when you’re meant to have a hundred and, what, ten gods and a leprechaun all at your back in only a few short months?” he tilted his head, “Most of those even in a few short days? You’re going to draw attention, if you haven’t already.” He lifted his head. His eyes were soft, sad even. “It’s not fair to you to be stuck in the middle of this bullshit when you don’t even have the slightest idea of what’s going on.”

You leaned back in the booth and looked up at the waiter. “Hey, do you have any Southern Comfort?” you loudly asked. The waiter nodded and wandered over with a glass.

“Odd choice,” Ignius said.

“It’s the only one I know,” you said with a shrug as you mixed it with your coke. You drank deeply.

“I can have the letter sent to your room this afternoon, tomorrow at the latest.” You arched an eyebrow as you continued to drink, digging your nails into your legs at the burn of the alcohol. “You can stay in the room as long as you’d like. My treat.” He inclined his head to you. You licked your lips and lowered the glass. The debt repayment. Right. He drank his water. When the waiter came over, Ignius told him to include whatever you ordered on the room tab. Then, the man stood, buttoned his suit coat, and hesitated at the table side.

He squeezed your shoulder. “You may work for Wednesday, but you’re not his,” he murmured. You nodded slowly. “You’re free to contact me when whenever you need help,” he added. He smirked. “Or your sister.” Your eyes snapped up to him. “She got a raise for that stunt she pulled, don’t worry.” He patted your shoulder and sighed, then left.

You stared at the tabletop for a long time. The waiter came by again, asked you if you needed anything. You scratched your eyebrow. “Could I get another Coke? With…the whiskey?” you asked. He nodded, asked if you could use anything else. You tapped your finger on your notebook. “Yeah, a basket of fries and…is there a laptop I can use?”

  
He smiled. “I’ll ask the concierge to bring you one.”

You nodded, then held up your hands and murmured, “Like, the largest basket of fries you could possibly make.”

“Of course.”

“Oh!” The waiter turned back to you as your exclamation. You smiled sweetly, patted your bag for the envelope of money, and gave him two hundred dollars. “Any possible chance that someone – anyone – could like…find me some jewelry wire? And two chains?”

He took the money and returned your smile. “Are you making something?” he asked.

“Maybe,” you murmured.

“Any particular color?”

“Gold.”

“I’ll have them sent to your room.” He lifted the money.

You smiled. “You can keep the change, just as long as the room is left just the way it is when the stuff is brought up.”

“Of course.”

Sweeney came down an hour later to find you halfway through your basket of fries and typing away on a computer. A large glass of water sat on one side of you, a glass of whiskey and Coke on the other. Your notebook was filled with scribbles that you had yet to sift through and your journal was open to the M section. The hotel card was drying to the page.

He picked your bag up from the booth and flung it to the empty seat across from you, sitting next to you with a groan. “What in the ever lovin’ fuck are you doin’?” he asked, not angry, just curious. You scooted over for him. He stretched his legs out onto the empty seat and draped an arm across the back of the booth. “Research?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled around a French fry. He reached for one. You smacked his hand. “Order your own, you goblin,” you grumbled. He took a handful, muttering something about it being a replacement for your missing cream, and shoved them in his mouth.

“Yer note said you were comin’ down to talk with that weird asshole,” he pointed out. You didn’t protest when he finished your Southern Comfort and Coke. “What happened?”

“How come you didn’t tell me about the fucking New Gods?” you hissed. You leaned over your notebook and scribbled something else. Sweeney scanned your screen and frowned: why were you reading about conspiracy theories? He noticed you also had a tab open for popular American myths, American cryptids, alien abduction stories; just what did Ignius Tatum say to you, wondered Sweeney.

The screen flickered. A little red dot appeared at the top, where the camera was.

Sweeney snapped the laptop shut and pushed it across the table.

You looked up. “I was using that!” you protested.

“They were watchin’ you,” he mumbled. You shifted in the booth seat, shoved your back into the corner so that you could properly look at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the New Gods?” you whispered.

The waiter came over with another full glass of whiskey and Coke. Sweeney took it without a thank you. He drained it before the man could leave, and burped out the question of, “Bring me another?” The waiter’s smile was strained this time, but he nodded and walked back to the bar. “I told you not to accept any offers from fuckin’ _Gr_ _ímnir_ ,” he murmured.

“You still could have told me about New Gods, about…” you sputtered, “A war?”

He rolled his eyes. “There ain’t a war.”

“Ya sure?” you snapped. You stretched and tugged the laptop back to you. Sweeney slapped his hand on it and pushed it away. You arched an eyebrow. “Why would _they_ ,” you emphasized with air quotes, “Be watching me? Why is there a split? Why can’t I have technology?”

“It’s safer.” Sweeney picked up the new glass as soon as the waiter set it down, never pulling his eyes away from you. He didn’t speak again until the man left. “They watch.”

“Why?” you asked.

“Because they’re a bunch of fuckin’ crazies?” he tried. He gulped down the drink, licked his bottom lip. “Because they don’t like us old folk bein’ around, suckin’ up any possible thread of faith that they could keep for themselves.” You stared at him. “You don’t believe me,” he mumbled.

You flapped your hands uselessly in front of you, staring at the pages and pages of notes you had taken. “It’s so hard to believe all of this,” you whispered. You adjusted yourself and slid your legs over his, slouching further in the booth, suddenly drained. You scratched your forehead as you picked up your water. The condensation dripped over your papers. “I’m tired.”

He bent his knee to nudge you and whispered, “You take your meds?”

You smiled faintly. “Don’t think I have.” He dropped his legs to let yours slide off his lap. Then, he stood and helped you gather all your things. You followed him, threw your things into your bag once you fetched it from the other side of the booth. You picked up the glass of water and the fries while Sweeney scooped up the laptop. Nodding at the waiter, you trailed after your companion and sighed. You tucked the water in the crook of your elbow and started to pick at the fries while you walked. They were yummy.

He punched the elevator button. You watched him. “Say, you never told me what you do for Wednesday,” you pointed out. Sweeney rolled his shoulders. The elevator dinged. You followed him in, frowning the longer he didn’t answer you. “Sweeney?” He was quiet. You kept eating, offering him the basket in his silence. He shouldered through the elevator doors the moment they opened and wandered down the hall. “Are you just not gonna answer me?” you loudly asked as you followed him. He unlocked the door, shoved it open, and tossed the laptop on the couch. He pulled off his button up with quick fingers. You hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t wearing his jacket. He tossed the shirt on top of the computer, lost his boots, and jumped onto the mattress.

You arched an eyebrow.

He motioned to the bed with his chin. “C’mon.”

“You’re not gonna talk?” you asked as you swung your bag onto the couch. You noticed, as you set the basket and water down, that there was a small plastic bag on the coffee table, right next to the two ruined coins. You kicked off your shoes, your socks, and stood on the mattress. He waved his hands for you to get ready. “Seriously, I asked you a question.”

“’m gonna answer your question,” he replied, “But we’re gonna do this, too.”

“Fight while talking?”

He nodded. His grin was a little feral. “Best way.” He jabbed his fist forward, slipping his hand between your lax guard, bopping you right in the nose. You stumbled, swearing loudly. “I’m _Gr_ _ímnir’s_ errand boy,” he growled, the anger growing. He shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders.

You thought he got larger, towered over you, but you weren’t positive. Maybe you were seeing things. “You punched me!” you shouted. You touched your nose. The damage wasn’t awful, but it was bleeding. You sniffed. The blood trickled down your throat. It made you gag a little.

“Best way to learn is ta get hit,” he pointed out. You rolled your eyes. “You wanna know what I do?”

“Yes,” you said as you climbed back onto the mattress. He cracked his neck. “Keep going.”

He swung a cross. You ducked. He tried another jab. You leaned back just enough for it to kiss your nose, not smash it. His grin grew. “I do the things he doesn’t wanna dirty his prim little hands with. The maimin’ and the killin’.”

You stepped in while he spoke, faltering in your swing at his words. He grabbed your wrist, stepped into your stance, curled his fingers around your shoulder, and swept your leg from under you. Your other one bent under your combined weight and you were flat on your back on the mattress, Sweeney leaning over you, chest heaving, knee pushing your thighs open while he balled your shirt in his fist. You rolled your wrist around in his hand. If it weren’t for the look in his eye, a glint that was a shade away from bloodthirsty, you’d have grabbed a hand full of his hair and yanked him to you, kissed him fiercely until he just had to pull your shirt off.

Instead, you tugged your arm down, wrist catching in his hold. You patted the hand on your shoulder with your uncaptured fingers. “Have you killed people, Sweeney?” you whispered.

He scanned your face. “No,” he breathed. His brow furrowed. “Not for him,” he corrected, “Not yet.” He released your shoulder. His thumb smoothed over your upper lip to wipe away the blood.

This time, when you tugged on your arm, he released you. You pressed your palm against the mattress and sat up, dangerously close, so close that you could see the individual flakes of gold in his eyes. They fanned around in his irises like frozen sun beams. You shifted the leg that was pinned under him and could feel the hard length of his cock against your thigh. You swallowed hard. Your mouth watered and your palms grew sweaty. It was all you could do not to lie back and ask him to fuck you.

His energy was contagious. You breathed through your nose and slowly felt the thoughts drip to the back of your mind.

“You’re manic,” you breathed. You trembled as his hand brushed your hip. You gripped the mattress with both hands and slid backwards, all the way until your ass dropped off the edge and onto the floor. His hand flicked towards your ankle. You pulled your legs towards you. You licked your lips and said, “When I’m manic, I find it best to get out of my head.” Your voice was low with the want that curled in your belly. “Fighting didn’t work very well,” you said after clearing your throat. “So, so let’s um…” Your voice stuttered as Sweeney sat back on his haunches, large hard-on straining in his trousers, then rolled backwards to his feet. “Let’s do something else. We can watch movies. We did that a lot when you would come over before. It helped me.”

“We shouldn’t have done this,” he rasped.

“No shit, this got a little awkward,” you agreed.

He grabbed his button up, then climbed onto the couch to snatch his jacket from behind it. “No, this. All this.” He swore something in what you thought was Irish. “Shouldn’ta followed Bast, shouldn’ta listened to the fuckin’ bird, shouldn’ta gotten you involved,” he darkly muttered. You stood and started to protest. “Shouldn’ta gotten close,” he continued.

“Sweeney.” He looked up. You shook your head. “Stop.” His grip on his clothes grew so tight that his knuckles went white. “Have you ever talked to someone?” you asked. You shrugged. “Do…leprechauns and gods and things do that kinda stuff?” He snorted at that. “I’m serious.” You rubbed your neck. “Don’t leave, okay? We don’t,” you swung your arm towards him, around the room, down at the mattress, “We don’t have to talk about this anymore. We can watch shitty movies, order a shit ton of room service, and just relax, okay?” He didn’t say anything. “Please, I’m really worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t be.” He looked down.

“Ya know, that’s just too fucking bad, because you’re my friend, so I’m gonna worry when you’re like this,” you said. You watched him sag into himself, sink back onto the couch with a groan. He doubled over his knees and buried his face in his clothes. “Stop feeling guilty about something that’s already happened, it’s too late to change it.” You lightly kicked his foot. “I’m here, and we’re working for the same guy and we’re probably gonna be seeing a lot of each other, so you need to get over this whole guilt thing.”

“Did you take your meds?” he mumbled through the cloth.

You snatched the remote off the table and threw it into his lap a little harder than you should have. Maybe you’d hit his dick. He’d deserve it for constantly deflecting. “Pick something out, you asshole,” you said as he groaned and drew his knees up. You searched around for your bag for your toiletries, for your meds, then dragged the room’s telephone to the couch.

The two of you sat and watched every possible awful movie and ate and drank well into the night, falling asleep on the couch against each other’s shoulders sometime in the morning.

You woke up a few hours later to a concierge knocking, delivering a letter from Ignius Tatum, and a note marked only with a W.

“Good while it lasted,” mumbled Sweeney, half asleep and a little hung over. You nodded.


	7. ...and Honeyed Spider Silk

You had told Sweeney that he didn’t need to come with you. He insisted after he got a look at the note from Mr. Wednesday. You said he could stay at the hotel until Ignius kicked him out. Again, he had insisted that he come with you to the next place.

You stared at him as you sat in the bus station, pressing your journal tight between your thighs as the glue dried on the envelope of Ignius’s letter, neatly filing it away under the H section. Sweeney read the note again as he smoked, stretching out his large frame on the bench and across the walkway. He clicked his tongue and balled up the note.

“Hey!” you shouted. You snatched it away before he could throw it.

“He say anything else? Was it just the address?” he asked. You smoothed out the paper on your knee and slid it into your journal, near the front, under the As, then shot him a look. He’d read it, why was he asking?

“No,” you said. “The last two didn’t either. It’s just the address and the little W.”

“You know who’s there?” he asked. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and stared at you.

You took a deep breath. You swore that Sweeney thought you were stupid, that you didn’t know how to look up anything. It was far too early for his smart-ass remarks and you were far too tired. Instead, you said nothing as you stared at the address.

The note had arrived with Ignius’s letter the day before, at the hotel. You had made the decision to wait before doing anything, to relax and enjoy the nice room and free food while you could. Sweeney had been fine with it. He didn’t even say anything about leaving until later in the night, when he had laid you out flat with a punch to the jaw – you were exhausted when you got hit, and just missed a dodge. He got lucky. It was then that he looked at the note, swore up a storm, and stole the shower before you could say anything.

You’d picked up the computer and curled up on the couch, putting the address into Google. It took you to a Google Map listing for a tailor by the name of Mr. Nancy. There wasn’t a website. You moved to Google and found a Yellow Pages listing, and a blog post from someone who had purchased from him.

“Mr. Nancy’s spider silk suits are the classiest and most comfortable thing a man could wear in his life,” posted the woman, including a picture of who you assumed to be her husband on the post.

You had crossed referenced after that. There weren’t too many spider gods whose names were close to Nancy.

(You happily noted that it seemed to be a trend to have a modern name that reflected who the god or goddess was for everyone you had met and tucked the thought away for another day.)

You shoved your journal in your book bag and stood. “I’m going to the bathroom,” you grumbled, throwing the other bag in Sweeney’s direction. He grunted when he caught it but said nothing to you as you shuffled away. You shouldered your way into the bus station, through a crowd that waited for tickets, and into the bathroom. It was silent, and clean, and you took up the stall furthest from the door. You hung your bag on the back and fished around for your phone, hoping that it was the bag you had thrown it into before you left. You leaned back against the wall when you found it and turned it on.

You smacked your head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. The phone played its opening tune.

You knew he shouldn’t have gotten to you. It was such a little thing, too, but holy shit did it get to you. It grated on your nerves every time Sweeney decided to be the Biggest Fucking Asshole the Earth Has Ever Seen (you were going to get that engraved on a giant middle finger statue, you told yourself, just so you could throw it at him and tell him to fuck himself)…(no, he’d probably enjoy that.)

You banged your head back against the wall again, squeezing your eyes shut. Then, you patted around in your bag for the bottle of water you had purchased at inside the station and your pills, then swore when you remembered they were in with your toiletries and your clothes.

You threw your head back against the wall for a third time, shoving your phone into your back pocket.

The door rattled.

“Occupied,” you mumbled.

It rattled again.

You frowned and looked over.

A pair of polished black shoes stood on the other side of the door beneath a pair of tailored and ironed grey slacks. They barely touched the front of the shoe, creasing only slightly as they went to the back. The front of the pants had that classic pressed pleat in the front.

“Say kid,” came a voice – a woman’s voice, you thought – from the other side of the door. You thought you recognized it, maybe? “You gotta smoke?” Her cadence, her emphasis, her words reminded you of an old show. It brought back memories of being sick in bed during college: nights of being curled up in your room with a stomach bug, knowing you wouldn’t be making it to class the next day, watching old black and whites on the SciFi channel all alone in your single person dorm. You’d done that for hours and hours and hours when you were sick. It had been comfortable.

“No,” you whispered. You cleared your throat. “Sorry.”

The woman shifted her weight and you swore you saw static break across her pant legs. “What, that bastard out there doesn’t share?”

“I’m sorry?”

She shifted again, turned around, pressed her back against the door. It bent inward with a massive weight. You started to smell something like burning dust and the heat your first television used to give off when you’d leave it on overnight. It was electrical and cloying and you wrinkled your nose.

“You know, you’re doing an awful lotta leg work for a guy that doesn’t even say ‘thank you’,” the woman said. You stepped away from the door. Your legs hit the toilet behind you and you fell ungracefully on top of it. Your phone dug into the seat and into your ass cheek.

“What do you know—”

“We’ve seen you around, kid,” she cut you off. She sounded amused, like she told a joke, like an audience was supposed to laugh somewhere in the background. They didn’t. “Running all sortsa errands for all sortsa people. You think we don’t hear when our people are reached out to?”

The intercom above your head crackled. A man’s voice – no, a boy’s – a teenager’s voice boomed through the bathroom like some fucking YouTube streamer talking shit about another player and said, “We hear you.”

(Remember, fear is based on the belief that something is real.)

You burst out of the bathroom stall, gripping your bag tight in your hands, and didn’t stop running until you reached Sweeney again. You watched the bus station as you adjusted your bag on your shoulders. You stumbled over Sweeney’s feet, tripping, sprawling out onto the concrete with an oof. Your first thought went to your phone. Your second was that you hoped it was broken.

“The fuck?” Sweeney mumbled. He stood and grabbed your arm. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He hauled you to your feet. As you stood, you fumbled your phone and turned it off and shoved it deep into your book bag.

“Um?” You cleared your throat. What did you see? You couldn’t be sure. You saw feet? Pants? Heard voices? You’d been hitting your head pretty hard against the wall right before – maybe you did something. You brushed your fingers through your hair to feel the back of your head. “Could I have my meds, please?” you mumbled.

Sweeney sat back on the bench and pulled your bag open, searching for the small bag of toiletries to look for the even smaller bottle. “Our bus is comin’,” he told you as you sat down. You threw another look at the building behind you. “Ten? Fifteen minutes?” he added. He held out the bag. You dug around through it for your medication and took them, gulping it down with massive pulls from your water bottle. “Wha’s wrong with you, anyway?” he asked.

“What?” you asked back. It took you a minute to process it. You thought you heard him ask what was wrong with you. Did he mean in general, or what spooked you, or what? You were tempted to just punch him square in the nose for such a rude fucking question, but when you turned to him he was watching your hands, staring at your fingers as they trembled and dropped the bottle back in your bag.

“Never asked before,” he said, then cleared his throat, “Figured it was none of my business.”

“It’s not,” you snapped. He looked ready to argue with you. Then, he took a deep breath, looked away. You stared at the side of his head. His hair was started to grow back where it had once been shaved, just a little stubble, enough golden red to fill in the gap between his undercut and his ear. He scratched the spot then tucked a freshly rolled cigarette behind his ear. You looked away. “I’m depressed,” you mumbled. You leaned back in the seat. “My brain just doesn’t make enough of some chemicals like serotonin or dopamine or…other things.”

“Those words supposed to mean something?” he asked. You rolled your eyes but smiled. At least he wasn’t being an asshole anymore. “So, what…you’re sad? All the time?”

“Not all the time, and it’s not just being sad,” you said. You shrugged. “It’s a lot of other stuff. Mania, anger, self-hatred, sadness, flipping between them all. But it’s not just that and it’s not all the time.” You zipped the small bag closed. “These help. Store bought chemicals.” You shrugged again. It was nice to talk about it. Not many people talked about it, and not many people asked, and it felt kind of nice, especially with him.

The bus rolled into the station. You watched it. A lighter clicked next to you and cloves wafted around you. He didn’t say anything. You wondered what he was thinking about. Maybe some of what you said resonated with him.

“What’s Anasi like?” you whispered.

Sweeney snorted. “You’ll like him,” he grumbled. The bus unloaded. People waited for their bags. “He’s a dick.”

You started to laugh.

The bus loaded almost two hours later, after it had been cleaned and everyone had gone. You and Sweeney sat near the back, you at the window, Sweeney in the aisle. You tucked your bags between your feet and sat back. He thew his arm around the back of your seat. You looked up at him, settled back against his arm. He stared ahead, though his head was tilted in such a way that he listened to whoever sat in the back. You tried listening in but found you couldn’t hear much more than a low murmur.

Sweeney patted your shoulder. “Get some sleep.” He squeezed it. “It’s early.”

“Fuck you,” you mumbled. He snorted. You reached into your bag and pulled out your novel. You pressed your knees into the seat in front of you and relaxed back against Sweeney’s side.

You managed to finish your novel about halfway through the ride. You started the next one, with the pirate and the girl. Eventually, Sweeney fell asleep, snoring, his cheek on top of your head. The bus was pulling into the final station. You elbowed him gently, whispering, “We’re here.”

“No,” he whined. He adjusted his head on top of yours and sighed.

You shifted around, looking up at people shuffled off the bus. There were a few guys talking to themselves, snickering as they passed you and Sweeney. An old lady followed them, whispering, “Bless your little heart,” as she passed. You smiled.

Reaching up, you patted Sweeney’s face. “But really, we’re here. You can sleep more at the house.”

“Fuck I can,” he grumbled. He stood, though, stretching all seven feet of himself, drawing the attention of more than a few eyes.

You grabbed your bags and followed him. “What do you mean?”

“Old man’s gonna ask us what the fuck we’re doin’ there,” he said, ticking off a finger, “Why the fuck he should let us stay,” he continued, “And who the fuck we think we are for bargin’ in on him like this.” He looked at his wrist like he was put together enough to own a watch. “And it’s hardly noon,” he added.

“I take it you don’t have that great of a relationship with Mr. Nancy,” you said.

“I did say he was a dick,” he groaned. He looked around as you two walked through the bus station, slowing down, tilting his head in a way that made you roll your eyes. “You have the address, right?” he asked slowly.

“No, you are not ditching me to hook up with someone in a bus station bathroom,” you stated. He started to wander away. You flipped up the back of his coat, grabbed one of his suspenders, and started walking.

“Wha—Let go o’ me?”

“No.” You looked back as you shoved your way through the doors. “You’re the one that wanted to come with me. I’ve given you plenty of chances to fuck off, and you’ve taken none of them, so no, I won’t, because you’re not going to leave me to deal with a guy that I’ve never met if I do and I will be dammed if you do that to me when you insisted on staying!” Your voice grew louder with every word, until you were shouting at him in front of the doors.

He arched an eyebrow. “If you wanted me around that badly, you just had ta say so,” he commented with a smug grin, though there was a tinge to his warm cheeks. He’d never say he was touched.

You walked away with a grumble of, “I fucking hate you.” He chuckled as he followed.

It took you a while to get to Mr. Nancy’s house, but you finally found yourself climbing the stairs of his house sometime around mid-afternoon. Sweeney gripped your shoulder as he reached around you, knocking his fist into the door unkindly. “I’ll introduce you to the man, but then I’m takin’ off for a bit,” he said in your ear, breath hot against your skin.

You couldn’t help the way your breath hitched, or the goosebumps that rose under your shirt. “Where—?” You glanced back. He looked distracted, unfocused, and his eyes darted down to your profile. You could trace the constellations in the freckles on his face.

The door opened. “Who the—Oh.” A tall man leaned against the door, weight resting on the doorknob as he looked over you both. He was dressed impeccably in royal purple suit pants and a crisp, white button up. The sleeves were rolled up his forearms in sharp, neat rolls and around his biceps were tiny belts you’d only seen in vintage pictures. To round out the look, he had black suspenders, a grey tie, and a grey vest.

You smacked the back of your hand against Sweeney’s chest. “Why don’t you ever dress like this?” you asked him.

The man before you, Mr. Nancy, snorted. “That would imply that he’s got a lick of taste somewhere in that giant frame of his.” Mr. Nancy stepped back and let the door swing open. “Sure as fuck doesn’t have a brain.”

“Classy,” Sweeney grunted as he shouldered past you and into the house.

“Or manners!” shouted Mr. Nancy at Sweeney’s retreating back. Sweeney replied by swinging his hand behind his back and flipping him off.

You huffed out a heavy sigh. “He’s been in a mood,” you mumbled. You smiled – a knee-jerk smile, one of those you had used back in your retail job days from college – and introduced yourself, earning a proper introduction from him. “I’m really sorry for barging in like this—”

Mr. Nancy started to laugh, though he let go of the door to walk further inside. You glanced around, set your bags under the front window, and shut the door. “Sorry?” he asked, turning around. His eyes flicked to your bags, then to you. “If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Sorry felt polite to say,” you nervously whispered. He was different than the others, you felt that in the air, in the heat of his eyes that scrutinized every inch of you despite them never leaving your face. You swallowed and found your mouth dry. “I was asked—told,” you quickly corrected, “Told to come here.” You patted your pockets and held out the note.

He took it. “Told?” he repeated, “Whomst the fuck told you…” He trailed off. You stepped further into his house. It was beautiful and cool. You thought you heard something like tiny, tinny clicks but couldn’t really place the sound. “That motherfucker,” whispered Mr. Nancy behind you.

You turned around before he could crush the paper. “Please don’t ruin that, I keep them,” you rushed to say. Mr. Nancy looked up from his hands. The paper was twisted, on the verge of being crumbled, but was still able to be saved.

He handed you the paper. “You’re the wish granter,” he pointed out.

You folded the paper back into your pocket, stuttering through a few words. “Haven’t heard that one yet,” you mumbled. You cleared your throat. “How?”

“Word gets around, kid,” said Mr. Nancy. He waved to your bags. “C’mon. I gotta assume you and that mooching ass fucker in my kitchen don’t have a place to stay.” You scrambled for the bags, huffing as you hauled them onto your shoulders. “Granted, that same mooching ass fucker is gonna sleep on the FLOOR!” Mr Nancy shouted. You jumped. He waved a hand down a hall, telling you to stop at the second door on the left.

“Got shit to do!” came Sweeney’s voice, though muffled through the walls as you headed down the hall.

“Yeah, like taking those shitty cigarettes outta my house!” There was a thud, and the shuffle of feet. “That shit – specifically your shit – stinks up my fabric, and I swear to fuck if you ruin what I got…” Mr. Nancy’s voice trailed off as you opened the door, muffled by the well-built walls of the house.

The room had a bed – a gorgeous bed, with an old metal frame and a patchwork quilt in the style of a stained-glass window, and large, overstuffed pillows. You kicked your shoes off, shucked your sweatshirt to the floor, along with your shorts, and fell onto the clean bedding. Its springs squeaked with the weight.

Mr. Nancy, Sweeney, the voice from the bus stop, the woman from the stall, the ravens, the favors, Mr. Wednesday, it all swirled in your head in an overwhelming mass of color and you yawned. You barely heard Sweeney shout that he was leaving before you fell into a deep sleep.

You woke up maybe two hours later, with the late afternoon light slanting through the window. There was a washer going somewhere in the house. You rolled over to make sure your clothes were still there and relaxed at the sight of them. You’d feel bad if he washed them, though you felt he wouldn’t do it out of charity. Then you climbed to your feet, stretching. Redressing, you grabbed your book bag and shuffled down the hall. The gentle hum of a machine reached your ears. You rounded the corner, eyes on the couch against the far wall, passing in front of another open room.

Mr. Nancy glanced up from a very familiar jean jacket that lay limp beneath his fingers. Behind him were a litany of spiders, something that made your skin crawl as the faint tinny tinks of their legs met your ears. You smiled – grimaced, really – and sat on the couch. As you reached into the backpack, you felt the plastic bag from the craft store shoved against the side, and your smile turned soft and genuine. You pulled it out, folded your legs on the couch, and picked up one of the ruined coins.

The humming stopped at some point; the jacket was mended. You registered Mr. Nancy walking in front of you. Then, you jumped when his voice said, “What, and I mean this with the utmost respect, mind you, the fuck is that monstrosity in your hands?” Mr. Nancy set a glass of water down on the table in front of you as he said this, drawing your attention up long enough for him to motion to said monstrosity. You looked down. The coin you worked on was the first one, with the hole shot straight through the center. The heat of the bullet hadn’t melted the thing, but stretched the metal around it, extending the coin out to the size of a quarter. At first, you’d wanted to just add a hook so you could wear it on a necklace, but then you started looping the wire around the coin, forming a star.

You’d thought it’d be pretty with a star.

Now, as you worked the wire in and out and around the coin, you thought maybe you’d been mistaken. You huffed at Mr. Nancy’s comment as you wrapped the wire around one of the cross sections of the star, tying them together. “It’s not a monstrosity, you’re just mean,” you shot back.

“It’s ugly as fuck,” Mr. Nancy stated as he sat on the opposite end of the couch. He crossed his legs, leaning back. “Also, why in the hell are you travelin’ around with that asshole? He’s got to, at least, have mange, and who knows what the fuck else.”

You snorted, holding the coin up to the light above your head. You squeezed the wires together until they formed a neater star and smiled. You liked it.

Mr. Nancy jerked his chin up and asked, “It’s ‘cause he’s proportional, isn’t it?” He smirked.

“No!” you exclaimed, though heat flooded your face. You dropped your hands in your lap and turned to him. “Why does everyone and their mother think that Sweeney is my fucking boyfriend?”

“Maybe ‘cause he looks at you like he is,” Nancy answered.

You squinted. “That’s a lie,” you said slowly, “He does not.” While you spoke, Nancy nodded. “He’s just horny,” you said.

“That boy was born horny and he will die horny and neither of those facts will change how he gets all fuckin’ starry eyed lookin’ at you,” said Mr. Nancy with an air of finality that made you snort.

You looked down at your charm and moved onto the next cross section in the star, looping the wire around it, and ignored his statement. “So, why am I here?” you asked as you worked. “All I got was a note with your address on it. Generally, there’s, I dunno, a favor to be done?”

“Unless you can get rid of someone, there aren’t any favors here,” he answered with a scoff.

You wrapped another cross section, tilting your head to one side. “I certainly can give it a try.” You looked up. “I’m not killing someone, though.”

Mr. Nancy clicked his tongue. “Damn.”

He let you finish up the charm. You hung it off one of the two gold chains you had in the bag and smiled. You tucked the necklace into the pocket of your shorts and asked him where you were going.

“The asshole lives across town,” he said as he wrote down the address. He ripped the paper from a notepad and handed it to you, tilting his head as he eyed you up and down. “Are you collecting for the meeting?” he asked.

You took the paper. “What meeting?”

He arched his eyebrows but didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “What size are you? You’ll need to clean up if you’re gonna be there.” You looked down at your sweatshirt and shorts with a pout. He was nodding when you looked up. “Yeah.”

You walked to the bus stop with your book bag, pulling out the second of the coins. It was a little harder to figure out what to do with the coin, especially with the strange bowl shape. You dropped a few quarters into the fare slot as you climbed on the bus and sat in the first empty seat while you continued to work: you looped the wire around the dent, then created a matching star around the back of the coin, mimicking something like a blanket stitch around the edge of the it, then added the loop for the chain. You shoved the tools into the small shopping bag everything had come in, along with the remaining wire, and threaded the chain through the loop.

When you looked up, you had arrived at your stop. Took about an hour to an hour and a half. You didn’t mind. You got something done on the trip, at least. You looked around as you climbed off the bus, fastening the necklace around your neck. It was a nice section of town, like a business sector, lined with fancy cars and clean sidewalks. You looked around the buildings for the one Mr. Nancy had given you and sighed.

  1. Promotional was right in front of you. It matched the address.



Glancing both ways, you jogged across the street and through the doors. The woman at the front desk looked up at you, asking if you had an appointment.

“Um…” You drummed your hands on the desk. “I’m here to see Anders?”

The woman smiled and repeated, “Do you have an appointment?”

The blood drained from your face. “Mr. Nancy sent me?” you tried again.

She pressed a button her desk and leaned over. “Your next appointment is here.”

“Fuck,” came the voice from the other side.

You arched your eyebrows. She wrinkled her nose. You smiled. “I take it he and Mr. Nancy aren’t friends.”

“Not exactly,” she replied. She pointed down the hall and told you that his office was the second door on the right. You gripped the straps of your book bag and wandered over.

A man sat behind a desk, catching a rubber band ball as it bounced off the wall. He turned around once it was in his hands, mouth open for a snarky remark of some kind that he didn’t start. “You’re not Nancy,” he said instead. He had an accent you hadn’t heard before, but you were sure wasn’t Australian. He set the ball on his desk, rose from his seat, and held out his hand. “Anders. Though, if you know Nancy, you might want my real name.”

You took his hand with a smile. “I mean, it’d be appreciated,” you shrugged, “He didn’t give me much information, and I didn’t have a lot of time to do research.”

“Is that your thing then?” he asked, leaning back against his desk. He was dressed well, though not as well as Mr. Nancy, with a pair of dark pressed slacks and a well-fitting button up. “Research.”

“It’s quickly becoming my thing, yes.” You smiled and gave him your name. “I work for Mr. Wednesday.”

“Ah.” The man smiled one of those smiles that men had when they weren’t really listening. He was good looking. Charming. “So, I shouldn’t convince you to _have dinner with me_.”

You cleared your throat, rolling your neck uncomfortably. Were you hearing things, or did part of his sentence sound strange? Did it settle into your head? As you thought these things you wondered what you were doing tonight and if you could cancel so that you could eat with him.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, a little winded. You licked your lips. “Are you asking me to dinner?”

“Are you free?” He sat up further on his desk, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I mean _you don’t have anything planned for tonight_ , do you?” There it was again. This time you caught the strange warble to his words. They pushed past your coherent thoughts and left you tongue tied and shaking your head.

“No, no I,” your eyes fluttered and you nervously laughed, stepping away from him. “Don’t do that.” You scratched your neck, slipped your fingers under your necklace as you tried to reorient your thoughts. “I’m here to do you a favor.”

“Dinner’s a favor,” he insisted.

“I’m being serious.” You looked up at him, twisting the coin charm between your fingers. “Mr. Nancy wants me to get rid of you.” He started to laugh at that with some kind of sarcastic laugh that made you roll your eyes. “Why are you in this town? Huh? If you can worm your way into people’s heads like that?”

His laugh stopped. “You could feel that?”

“Don’t most people?” you asked.

Anders shook his head, staring at you, pushing away from his desk. All the teasing and flirting was gone, replaced with a seriousness that didn’t look at home on his face. “No. I’m Bragi, god of poetry, I _bend_ people to my will and you did not bend,” he said slowly. He stepped into your space and you gripped the coin in your hand a little bit tighter. “What are you?”

You shrugged, and sighed, and simply said, “Just lucky, I guess.”

He smiled. “Lucky, huh?” He rolled his lips together. “I know what favor you can do.”

“I feel like I’m gonna hate this,” you said.

He grinned. “Most likely.” He clapped your shoulder and walked around his desk, grabbing his coat from his chair. Then, he turned you around and pulled your hand onto his arm. “Dawn!” he called as he led you down the hall. “Clear my afternoon, I’ve got something to do.”

“Seriously?” she asked as she stood. You noticed she had the same accent as he did. “Anders, you can’t just—”

“Yes, I can!” he rushed to call, opened the door, “I’m the boss, I make the rules, good-bye, Dawn!”

You stumbled out onto the sidewalk. “Wow, all you guys are just fucking dicks,” you whispered.

“I’m sorry?” asked Anders as he pulled on his coat.

“Nothing,” you innocently replied. You flapped your hands and slapped them against your bare thighs, fixing your shorts. “Where, oh where, are you taking me?”

“Oh.” He clapped your back. “Somewhere for your favor. Which you’re doing. For me. Right now.” He motioned to a shiny SUV down the street. “If you do this successfully, I will pack up my business and leave and won’t even consider it a repayment of the debt that I will owe you.” He opened the door for you.

You crossed your arms as you thought it over. “Why?” you finally asked, staring at him.

He grinned. “Because if you manage to do this, you will have given me the best gift I could have ever asked for and absolutely nothing will match up to it.” He leaned closer to you. “You do this and I will be in your debt for the rest of your life.”

You leaned towards him, gripping your arms as you whispered, “What, pray tell, the fuck are you asking me to do?”

“Beat my brother in a game.” He smirked. “He’s here to visit, he’s never been beaten, and I would kill to see him eat his words as the god of fucking games.” Anders walked around the car and patted the hood. “Get in!”

You swung your bag into the foot well and climbed into the front seat. Anders glanced at the road before he pulled away from the curb. As he did, you pulled out your phone, then paused. The red light from the laptop flashed across your memory. You dropped the phone back into the bag, not even bothering to turn it on. “Bragi, where’s he from?” you absently asked. You pulled out your journal. “You,” you corrected, “Where are you from?”

Anders at least laughed. “Bragi is Norwegian,” he said, “I’m from New Zealand.”

“Wait, really?” you asked, turning to him.

He didn’t look away from the road as he asked, “Which part?”

“Norway, Bragi—” you shook your head, “You’re part of the pantheon there?” He nodded. “My boss is Mr. Wednesday. Like that Mr. Wednesday.”

He looked over, almost rear ending the car in front of him, who was stopped at the red light. “You don’t say?” he whispered, finally piecing it together. He turned into a ritzy neighborhood. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“You don’t sound excited,” you pointed out as you opened your journal. “Do you have a business card?”

He fished around in his glove box as he said, “I’ve enjoyed my freedom away from that asshole, actually. Got away from him in New Zealand—” You tilted your head, looking over with a thousand questions. He held up the business card, “—Avoided him in Norway. And now here? Fucking hell, can’t get away.” You puffed your cheeks and blew out air as you processed that, then grabbed your notebook and made a note on a blank sheet. You were just gathering notes up, weren’t you? You needed to sit down and transcribe them eventually. Anders pulled up to a beautiful house with a long driveway, parking behind a rented truck.

You nodded as you shoved the two books back into your bag. “Uh, okay, that’s a lot to unpack there,” you mumbled. You exited the car, looking up at the house. “Who am I seeing?” you asked.

“His name is Mike,” Anders explained as he locked the car. You glanced back at it with a mildly horrible thought: no one knew where you were. The panic was slight and the adrenaline was hot as you convinced yourself this was fine, everything was fine, you would be fine. You laughed a bit as you followed him up to the house. “But his real name is Ullr, god of the hunt, skill, and duels.”

You stopped. “What?” you squeaked out. “I didn’t think you were being literal.”

He looked back as he unlocked the door. “Oh, well, I did say he was the god of games, didn’t I?” he asked.

“I thought you were being facetious!”

“No?” He pushed open the door. “After you.”

You slipped past him into the house and, as you did, you hissed, “You’re a fucking prick.”

“Duly noted.” He shut the door behind him.

The inside of the house was just as beautiful and clean as the outside, filled with modern fixtures and gorgeous glass and metal architecture. You whistled as you followed Anders through the house, rubbing a circle against the strap of your bag.

“You live here?” you whispered.

“For now,” he quipped. You rolled your eyes. “Mike!” he shouted. “Mike,” he sang. “Mike,” he groaned.

You took a deep, annoyed breath.

Someone walked down the stairs ahead of you, stopping when he spotted you and Anders. “What the fuck?” the man asked.

You nodded as him as Anders pulled you up next to him, sliding his arm around your back as he introduced you. “Mr. Wednesday sent—”

“No,” interrupted the man, Mike. He ruffled his dark brown hair and moved further down the stairs. He didn’t look much like Anders, you noticed. While Anders had almost golden-brown hair, Mike’s hair was dark, chestnut even. Mike was taller, a little broader. Though, and you looked between the two of them as they shared amused looks and annoyed glares, they had the same eyes.

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say,” Anders protested after a moment.

Mike walked to the bottom of the steps and crossed his arms. His eyes flicked to you. “Wednesday sent you?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Sent me to Mr. Nancy, who sent me to him,” you said, pointing to Anders over your shoulder.

Anders shrugged. “Wednesday sent—”

“I heard you the first time, Anders,” Mike groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose. You wondered if he had to put up with things like this a lot to already have such a prepared and practiced response. “Why did he bring you here?” Mike asked you.

You frowned and shrugged. “I do favors.”

“And?” he prompted.

You looked at Anders. He shrugged, shoved his hands in pockets. “And Anders wants me to play a game with you,” you answered slowly. His eyes cut to Anders’s like a pair of icy daggers. You pressed your lips together, popped them gently, held up your hands. “Or I don’t have to?” you suggested.

“No, we can play a game,” he said. He rolled his eyes, though. Anders clapped his hands, rubbed them together, and headed towards a large dining room table. Mike leaned towards you. “You’re not really doing this for him, are you?” he whispered. “He didn’t con you into this? Convince you?”

You snorted and looked up at him. “He wants me to do this because he couldn’t convince me,” you replied. You tilted your head towards the table. Mike started walking, staying by your side as you followed him. “But, actually, a…” you tilted your head to the other side as you carefully chose your words, “Friend of mine wanted me to run him out of town.”

“Because he’s a pain in the ass?”

“Something like that, I think,” you said with a smile. Anders cleared his throat. He shook a pack of cards out into his hand. You gripped the back of the chair you stood behind. “This is gonna come back to bite me in the ass, I’m sure, but why doesn’t Mike pick?” you suggested.

“No,” Anders immediately protested.

Mike started to laugh.

“No,” Anders said again, setting down the cards, fumbling them across the table, “No, trust me, you don’t wanna do that!”

“I’m partial to rock, paper, scissors,” Mike said through his laughter. You waved at him and released the chair.

“This is stupid,” Anders said. He pulled out the chair and sat, though, even propped his feet on the table. “I’m pointing this out now, this is stupid.”

“Rock, paper, scissors?” you asked. You nodded at Mike and lifted your hands.

“Yes!” Anders exclaimed. He shrugged. “Boring, for one, especially to watch – he never fuckin’ loses.” He huffed as he crossed his arms and muttered, “At least card games are fun.”

“On shoot?” you asked Mike. He nodded. You chanted softly, pounding your fist against your palm, and threw out scissors at the same time he did. Mike squinted.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot,” he mumbled.

Rock vs. Rock.

Anders straightened in his chair.

Chant.

Paper vs. Paper.

Chant.

Paper vs. Paper.

Mike’s eyes flicked up to your face. You met them, pressing your lips together. He tucked his hand in his pocket, spread his feet a little, and nodded. Anders scrambled from the table to get a better look.

Rock vs. Rock.

Scissors vs. Scissors.

Scissors vs. Scissors.

Rock vs. Rock.

Paper vs. Paper. Scissors vs. Scissors. Paper vs. Paper. rockvsrockrockvsrockpapervspaperpapervspaperpapervspaperscissorsvsscissorspapervspaperscissorsvsscissors

“Okay, who the fuck are you?” Mike asked when another game ended in a tie.

Anders looked up from where he was crouched next to you both, intently watching your hands. “Fuckin’ magic,” he answered. He stood and turned your hand over. “No tells, neither of you, no telegraphing, no nothing – this is?” He pushed air between his lips and shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Impossible,” Mike pointed out.

You shrugged. “I technically didn’t win,” you said.

“No, but you didn’t lose either, which was really the point of this,” Anders said, letting go of your hand. Anders let his eyes wander to Mike’s, a smug grin spreading across his face. “God of games my ass,” he sang. Mike turned away with a disgusted groan. “Someone bested you.” Anders slapped a hand against Mike’s back. Anders was halfway across the house before he remembered you were there. He turned around and jogged back to you. “Let me call you a car, take you wherever you need to go.” He paused. “Do you want his business card, too?”

“So, is that it?” you stuttered, following him towards the door, taking the card that he offered to you.

Anders didn’t look up from his phone as he hummed, “Hm?”

“Is that all I needed to do?” you asked.

“Oh.” Anders shoved his phone into his pocket. “Yeah. That’s it. Favor done. Freakin’ miracle worker you are, tyin’ with Mike like that. What are you, anyway?”

You shrugged, tucked the card in your pocket, and waved your hands like you were finger painting rainbows. “Wish granter,” you majestically whispered, then shrugged. Anders laughed.

The car arrived ten minutes later. The adrenaline from being in a potentially dangerous situation finally disappeared from your system on the drive. You dug through the bag to tip the driver when he pulled up in front of Mr. Nancy’s shop and thanked him for the ride. He smiled, nodded, and didn’t say thank you for the fifty dollars you slipped him. You shuffled up the front steps, scrubbing your face with your hands. You were exhausted and full of questions and really just wanted to sleep. Actually sleep, not nap. You were pretty sure you’d been up at least sixteen hours, maybe more. You took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

“DOOR!” came Sweeney’s muffled voice. You found yourself smiling. It was comforting to hear him, especially after doing your first favor alone. You wanted to talk to him about it.

“I’m not deaf, you freeloading fuck!” Mr. Nancy shouted back. You snorted, scratching your forehead and shoving your hand through your hair. The older man opened the door, arching an eyebrow as his eyes landed on you. “Been wonderin’ where you’d gone,” he said. He opened the door more for you, jerking his head back further into the house, “Big Red hasn’t been able to shut the fuck up since he came back, askin’ where you’ve been.”

You walked inside and dropped your bag by the door. “Sorry. It’s been a day.”

Sweeney appeared in the main room, almost sliding across the floor in his haste. He relaxed when he set his eyes on you. He ruffled his hair. His blue shirt had been mended. You smiled. “I’m home,” you joked as you walked further in, pushing up the sleeves of your sweatshirt, “Beat a game god today.” You turned around and took a few steps backwards as you faced Nancy to announce, “Anders will be cleared out in a week, or two.”

The man chuckled. “You, my dear, are gifted beyond belief.” He took your face in his hands and planted a kiss against your head. You felt your skin tingle. “I think that deserves a fuckin’ drink!”

You smiled when he let you go and disappeared through a doorway. You turned around to face Sweeney, finding yourself extremely close to him. His fingers traced the line of your neck as they slipped under your necklace chain, following it down to the coin that rested in the hollow of your throat. “What’s this?” he murmured.

“Oh, it’s…” You patted your pocket and pulled out the other necklace from your pocket. “Those coins, the ones that saved you from getting shot in the fuckin’ chest.” You dangled the other one from your fingers. “We can switch if you want. I like this one,” you said, touching the coin around your neck, “Because you could see the sun on it. Thought it was neat.”

He slipped the necklace out of your grasp with an expression you couldn’t read. “You made this for me?” he whispered. His thumb traced over the star in the middle of the coin.

You nodded. “Felt a shame to get rid of something so lucky, you know?” you murmured. You shoved your hands in your pockets and rocked back onto your heels. He just stared at it. You couldn’t read his expression. “If you don’t want it, I can send it to my sister. She’d love it.”

“No!” he protested, curling the charm into his palm. He cleared his throat and fixed the chain around his neck. Even on the longest link it was almost too small – it dangled right in the hollow of his throat, the same place yours hung.

You reached up to untwist the chain. “I’ll find a longer chain for you before we leave town,” you murmured.

Sweeney’s hand cupped the back of your head. You looked up. He knocked his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. You pressed your lips together, heat flooding your face, holding your breath. You traced the stars on his cheek with a careful look.

He released you a moment later, just as the sounds of Mr. Nancy were coming back down the hall. “Thank you,” he whispered.

You nodded. “You’re welcome.”


	8. ...and the Forever Memory

Sweeney groaned as he lowered himself onto the bed, careful not to make the springs squeak. You moved over for him, clinging to the edge of the bed that you once thought was large. The ceiling fan overhead spun on its highest speed and, still, Sweeney, in all of his damp, freshly showered glory, radiated a heat you could not understand. You curled up under the sheet as he pulled the quilt around his naked waist and folded the pillow beneath his head. His fingers held the charm up between you two, letting it dangle from the longer, sturdier chain you had found at a nearby craft store.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” he whispered.

“I wanted to,” you softly replied. You gently tapped the coin, sending it spinning. You tucked the pillow further under your head, balling it up, and smiled. “I dunno, it just felt like a waste to throw them away.”

Sweeney chuckled, a soft sound that came from his nose. He smiled. The light of the streetlamps cast an orange-yellow glow over his face, made his eyes shift to an olive green. He twisted the chain around his fingers to pull the charm up to his palm. “If I didn’t have a lucky coin already,” he mumbled with a coy smirk.

You rolled your eyes, watched him as he shifted and pulled the necklace over his head. Your smile softened. “Can I see it?”

He tucked an arm behind his head and looked over, bent his knee, relaxed. The quilt slid dangerously low on his hips. His eyes glanced down at his waist and he smirked. You started to protest but stopped. Sweeney slid his fingers his fingers through the air as though he were following a shape to a point, brought them together where you couldn’t see, and then turned his hand over.

There, between his thumb and forefinger, was a coin. It shone even in the dark, a brilliant gold that put the rest of the coins you had seen from him to shame. He rolled the coin until he gripped it by its edges.

You sat up, let the sheet fall from your shoulder. “Can I…?”

“Will you give it back?” he asked.

Your eyes flitted to his face. He was watching you, unwavering and intense. You swallowed. “I don’t even have to….” You cleared your throat and moved closer to him, felt the heat of his skin on your bare shin. You wrapped your hand around his wrist and brought his hand closer to you and used your finger to carefully turn the coin in his grasp. You could see his chest rising and falling from the corner of your eye, could see the muscles that were etched so carefully into his body tense as he shifted. He rested his elbow on your knee.

“’s a king’s coin,” he whispered. His voice was as low as the quilt on his hips.

You traced the designs of the sun and absently asked, “King of the _Aos_ si?”

“ _Sí_ ,” he breathlessly corrected with a smile.

“ _Aos sí_ ,” you repeated, “Or…King Brân?”

“Someone’s been readin’,” he murmured.

You carefully turned the coin to see the other side. “Or yours?”

He gulped. You noticed. He hoped you hadn’t. He sniffed and lolled his head against his bicep, staring at the window on the other side of the room. “’s the treasure o’ the sun,” he said, deflecting your question. He pulled his hand away from yours and the coin was gone, along with its otherworldly glow.

Despite the warmth of the room and the heat that rolled off Sweeney’s skin, you felt a little bit colder. You laid on your side, facing away from him, pressing your back against his side. You curled your fingers against your chest, balling the corner of the sheet under your chin. The chill settled into the tips of your fingers.

Sometime in the night, Sweeney felt you shiver so hard it roused him, just a little, and he rolled onto his side to throw the quilt over your legs and his arm over your shoulders. You stopped shivering. He woke up not too long after to find you tucked close to him, half turned under his arm with your face in the crook of his elbow. You awoke later to him gone and the quilt tucked around your shoulders.

Later in the morning, a raven pecked at the window of Mr. Nancy’s sewing room. He ignored it, of course. It wasn’t his job to take care of it. And, he noted as he examined his stitching, it wasn’t his raven. He clicked his tongue and waved at it when it pecked at the glass again. It cawed angrily – something Mr. Nancy would remember – and flew around the house to another window.

It stopped on the sill and pecked at the glass, this time gaining the annoyed glared of Sweeney, who was turning his new charm over in his fingers. He sucked on his teeth and looked back at the coin. It was pretty – crude and handmade, yeah, but so were the coins in the Hoard. He felt a sense of pride well in his chest as he turned the coin over to look at the wire star from another angle, twisting the longer, sturdier gold chain you had purchased for it. The raven cawed again, something that made Sweeney’s brow furrow. He sat up and smacked his large hand against the glass with a shout of, “Fuck off! I’ll get there!”

The raven fluttered his wings and screeched. Sweeney replied with a snapping growl of angry Irish swears.

The raven left, but didn’t go far, settling on the sill of the only open window of the house, which sat far above your head. You glanced up from the floor of the bathtub, shielding your eyes from the cascade of water. The raven preened, cleaned its feathers as he settled down on the sill. You smiled and stood, curling your fingers around the windowsill to look up at him. He was a cute bird, you’d have to admit that, and you wondered of your feelings towards it. You heard a whisper, something that told you his name was Munnin, and your smile grew. Your memories were always looked on more fondly than thoughts, anyway. He fluffed his feathers and hopped to the edge, sticking out one foot. Attached to it was a rolled-up piece of paper.

You carefully pulled it free, standing on your toes to keep the paper dry in the windowsill. The paper had the address of a place in Nebraska and, beneath it, another address for somewhere in Indiana.

Indiana, though, had a date. “Come here at this time,” said the note, “Exactly at this time.” The W you were becoming familiar with ended the note. You held it out of reach of the water and pushed open the shower curtain, dropping it on top of your clean clothes. You’d add it to your journal when you were done.

Munnin chirped and ducked away, disappearing back around the house. You heard Sweeney start to shout at him. You finished your shower, dressed in a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, and wandered back to the bedroom. Sweeney was still swearing, leaning out the window, chewing on an unlit cigarette. He glanced back at you when you entered.

“I gotta go,” he said.

You fixed the necklace. “What?” You’d moved it to the last link and tucked it under your shirt.

Sweeney closed the window with a little more force than necessary. “I gotta go,” he repeated. He looked around the room, patted his pockets, and walked past you for the door. “Have to head to Indiana. Now or never.”

“What’s in Indiana?” you asked. He left the room. You grabbed your socks and pulled them on, hopping after him. “Hey!” you shouted, “What’s in Indiana!”

“Nothin’,” he grunted.

“Bullshit.” You stumbled after him. He ducked into the kitchen and picked up a small package that sat on the counter, which he then opened. He emptied out his pockets – the last of his cigarettes and the bag he kept his concoction in. The smell of fresh tobacco filled the room. You leaned on the counter. He started filling the bag. You picked up a cigarette that had rolled away from the pile. “So, what’s in Indiana?” Sweeney groaned at your question, turned around from the bag of tobacco-clove-whatever-else mixture. You, in turn, twisted the cigarette around in your fingers. “I mean, you gotta go now, so? What’s in Indiana? What don’t you wanna tell me?”

“You don’t wanna know,” he commented, reaching for the cigarette.

You stepped out of his reach. “Uh, I do. That’s why I asked.” You tucked the cigarette behind your right ear, just like he did. The paper stuck to your wet skin. You shrugged and asked the question that was weighing on your mind – had been since he said he was leaving. “Am I gonna see you again?”

“What?” he asked, then followed with, “Course you are.”

“Course I am,” you repeated with the same arrogant confidence he had. “You sound sure.”

“I am sure,” he countered. He rolled the bag up and shoved it in his pocket. “You’ve got my last cigarette.”

You scoffed, “Oh, fuck you.”

“Fuck me?” He stepped towards you, his voice dropping nice and low. “If ya want.”

“No. One,” Mr. Nancy enunciated every word as he walked into the room, eyes moving between you and Sweeney. “Is. Fuckin,” he said, pointing at you, then at Sweeney. “In. My. Kitchen,” he finished, tapping his finger on the counter. He waved his hand when you and Sweeney said nothing. “We got that?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Nancy,” you said with a smile, turning to Sweeney and wrinkling your nose, “Sweeney doesn’t shower enough for me to want touch his dick.”

“Never stopped anyone before,” Sweeney quipped with a smirk.

Mr. Nancy slapped his hand against the counter, sending you over the edge with raucous laughter as he shouted, “No! One! Is! Fuckin! In! My! Kitchen!”

Once your laughter subsided and you had wiped the tears from your eyes, you sighed, smiled, and turned your bright gaze to a very amused Mr. Nancy. “Thank you for your hospitality, by the way,” you said, tapping your fingers on the counter. He shrugged with the smallest of smiles. “How can we ever repay you?”

He snorted and leaned his elbow against the counter. “Big Red over here ain’t ever gonna get out of my debt,” he said. He waved his fingers toward you. “But you?” His smile grew. “Consider my debt to you cleared and we’ll call it good.”

Oh.

Sweeney watched you. He’d placed a cigarette between his lips but hadn’t lit it.

You drummed your hands on the counter. “Alright,” you agreed. You smiled. “But if you need anything else done, you can always ask, Mr. Nancy.”

“Sounds like you’re leavin,” Sweeney said.

You nodded, shrugged, looked down at your hands. You heard Mr. Nancy mutter something as he pushed away from the counter. “Yeah, I gotta go to Nebraska, but I was gonna detour, head to Ohio first.” You looked up.

Sweeney arched an eyebrow as he watched you and Mr. Nancy had left the kitchen. “What’s in Ohio?” asked the Irishman.

“Oh, there were two addresses on the note,” you said. You cleared your throat. “First Ohio, then Nebraska.” Then Indiana, you thought to yourself. It wasn’t quite a lie, just a little rearranging of the truth.

Sweeney nodded slowly, lifting his chin, standing straighter. “Uh-huh,” he whispered, “What’s in Ohio?”

You felt your heart stutter – why did it do that? – but confidently shot back. “What’s in Indiana?”

He rolled his eyes.

“I was offering this so that maybe we could travel together, but if you’re gonna be a dick about it, then never mind.” You looked down at your hands and pushed away from the counter. Sweeney’s mouth fell open. He started to protest. “No, you’re the Dick of Century today, so no, fuck you, I’ll go by myself.”

“Now, wait just a—” Sweeney growled and pushed away from the door. “Come back here?”

“No!” You shuffled through the door of room and shut it, flipping the flimsy lock.

Sweeney smacked his hands against the door, wiggled the knob, and groaned. “Let me in!”

“No!” you snapped.

He slapped his hands hard against the door. “Open the fuck—”

“You better not be breakin’ my door!” came Mr. Nancy’s muffled voice.

“This doesn’t involve you!” yelled Sweeney.

“The fuck it doesn’t! It’s my house!”

You took a deep breath and held it. There wasn’t a reason to snap at him, you knew that. You were just a little hurt that he was being so rude about where you needed to go. Granted, you were doing the same thing to him. But after you two spending so much time together and sharing so much with each other, you thought he’d tell you about Indiana. But then why didn’t you just share why you were going wherever you were going? Surely, he would appreciate you going to see someone about his memory, right? You exhaled and opened the door.

“I’m sorry!” you shouted over the two yelling men. They stopped but didn’t move. Nancy stood just inches away from Sweeney, his eyebrows arched, his hands in his pockets. Sweeney’s fists were balled on his hips while he huffed and puffed in silence. Despite his size and hulking frame, Mr. Nancy still managed to look the more intimidating of the two. You lowered your voice and softly repeated, “I’m sorry for causing problems.”

Mr. Nancy waved at you. “Why can’t you do that, huh?” he asked, “Just apologize for bein’ wrong?”

Sweeney rolled his eyes.

You shook your head. “That’s asking a lot,” you pointed out.

Nancy turned and headed back down the hall. “Doesn’t hurt to try!” he shouted.

Sweeney scrubbed his hands through his hair. “You got your shit packed?” he asked as his hands fell to his sides.

You shook your head, lifted your hands, and turned away. “No?” you said as you walked further into the room. You picked up your clothes – freshly washed and dried thanks to Mr. Nancy – and folded them up. “I don’t have much to pack but, also, I just decided to leave?”

“Well, hurry up,” he grumbled. He scooped your book bag off the floor, eyes darting around for anything you might have left.

“Why are you rearing to go?” you asked mid packing, flopping your hands on top of the bag. You didn’t have too much. It wouldn’t take you long. “Five minutes ago you literally – _literally_ – wanted to split and leave me behind.”

“And now you’re goin’ somewhere, and we can travel together, what’s the problem?”

“Your manic fuckin’ mood swings are the problem,” you answered. He looked down at the floor, working his jaw from side to side, planting his hands on his hips and gripping them tight. You slowly inhaled, looking down at the bag. “Problem is not the right word,” you whispered.

“’s a problem,” he softly countered, arching his eyebrow, still staring at the floor.

You sharply inhaled and muttered, “I’m gonna fucking hit you.”

“Do it,” he challenged, eyes cutting to yours.

“Sweeney, you’re manic!” you snapped, “I dunno what happened, or if that raven did something or what but you need to stop for a second!” He bristled with barely contained anger. “We’ll go,” you whispered, “It’s fine.” You looked around the room – under the bed and the blankets and in the corners – and closed your bag. “I’m done. Let’s go.”

You waved goodbye to Mr. Nancy after making sure he had your cell phone number and you his business card – though, he said he knew how to contact you if he needed you. You and Sweeney headed for the bus station in silence, bought tickets in silence, waited in silence. You filled out more of your journal – gluing business cards and writing down information from your notebook, which you shredded into tiny strips and dropped into the melted ice of your drink.

The bus came.

You two boarded in silence. You tucked your bus ticket into the back of your journal with the stub from the last one and sat back in your seat. “You just not gonna talk to me?” you whispered.

He sucked on his teeth and said nothing, did nothing but man spread in the bus seat and knock his knee against yours.

“I’m just worried,” you softly said. “About you,” you added. He stared straight ahead, even as you looked over at him. “Mania can be a symptom of depression,” you murmured. He rolled his eyes. “You tick a lot of boxes! I’m worried!”

“I’m not you,” he sniped, snapping his head to you. You closed your mouth. That hurt. His mouth curled and his nostrils flared as he shrugged. “Just mad. Cursed to be, you remember?”

You sighed and switched your journal for your novel. “Don’t talk to me, then,” you whispered.

He brooded.

You read.

The bus stopped in Montgomery, Alabama and you two got off the bus to wait for your next one. You both headed inside the station when it started to rain. Sweeney leaned his elbows on his knees as he flicked his lighter opened and closed, watching the rain roll down the station windows. You folded your legs underneath you in the chair.

“I remember coming ‘ere,” he murmured. You looked over. “It’s was rainin’ out on the ocean, but it was soft. Gentle. Late summer storm out on the sea, it was…” He waved his hand as he met your gaze. “Perfect ain’t the right word, but it was near there.” His eyes clouded with a memory as he scratched his beard and looked away. You held your ankles. “There were families on the ship. People that wanted to start over. Prisoners.” He shrugged. “Think everyone was family at the end of it, to be honest.”

“Is this your apology?” you softly asked.

He looked over again, eyebrow arched. “You wanna hear the story?” You zipped your fingers over your mouth and smiled. He sat back, slouched in the chair while heaving a sigh. “’s nothin’ special, I won’t lie, but it’s a story.” He crossed his arms. “Memory.”

“So, you’re remembering more?” you hesitantly asked.

He waved at the windows. “The rain. The travel.” He shrugged his shoulders around his ears and released a slow sigh. “’s not an important memory,” he murmured, “Just something I remembered.”

“Keep going,” you whispered.

He smiled. It looked good on his profile. “Felt different. I’d been in the woods for so long, being on the ocean just felt…almost wrong.” He sighed. He was doing that a lot. “I kept thinkin’ about the girl in the woods and her bobbies and her shit fuckin’ fortune and wanted to curse the other girl that put out cream and bread and the other bits for the fae that she’d heard of back home.” The smile faded. “I was goin’ to the west, one of the few of us who did, and I’d be alone.” His face turned sour. “Apt punishment,” he whispered, “Fortune comin’ true.”

“You’re not alone,” you pointed out.

His hand went to the small lump under his shirt. He smirked. It wasn’t as sour.

You two boarded the next bus after an hour. You asked him to tell you about home. He told you of pretty forests and bright green fields and lovely rivers and lakes. Nothing specific, just vague things. You said that it sounded like the pictures you’d seen. You, in turn – when asked – told him about where you grew up – the south – and where you went to college – the north-east – and your sister, whom you loved dearly and how she had a friend she’d written letters to for years and years. It got late. You watched the stars from the bus window.

“What’s with you and stars?” he quietly asked as he draped an arm behind your head.

You smiled. “They’re an extension of us,” you answered. You rolled your eyes back up to the sky and the stars you could see. “They made us and we gave them wonderful stories in return.”

“Made us?” he asked with a slight snort.

You nodded. “Everything that makes us up is also found in stars. When they explode, they make these huge clouds of gas that make planets and those planets make us.”

His fingers prodded the side of your head. “This is why we got aliens runnin’ around now, you know,” he muttered.

You smiled. “But, really. Carl Sagan, this scientist who studied this stuff, was right when he said we’re made of star stuff.” You paused and looked up at Sweeney, who finally seemed more relaxed. “I dunno about you, though, I mean, I think you’re mostly alcohol and anger.”

“Hah,” he laughed, “Funny.” You grinned. “Yer hilarious.”

The bus pulled into a station in Nashville in the early morning. You shuffled into the station with a yawn, checking the time your bus was set to depart. You had about four hours. Sweeney had three. He stretched out on seat with a yawn himself and patted the seat next to him. “Sleep,” he muttered. “I’ll wake you up before I leave.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. He didn’t move you. His jacket smelled like cloves.

Sweeney woke you almost three hours later, mumbling about how he had to leave. He shook a water bottle in your face before he walked out, reminding you about your meds, saying that he’d meet up with you soon.

You smiled as you opened the bottle. “Don’t get into too much trouble,” you said.

He snorted and rolled his shoulders, tilted his head, smirked. “You know me.”

Someone took the seat next to you as soon as he was out the door. That someone was a young man, his wild curly hair tied at the base of his neck. His skin was brown and darker around his neck than it was on his exposed shoulders. His dark brown eyes twinkled as he turned to you, scratching his trimmed goatee. “Your boyfriend won’t mind if I sit with you, right?” he asked. He was British, with a softer accent than you had heard on television.

The charm of his smile did not stop you from rolling your eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, fuck,” you groaned.

“You get that a lot?” he asked, leaning his elbow on the back of the chair, grinning from ear to ear.

“You have no idea,” you replied. You introduced yourself with a polite smile.

“Hody,” he said with a wave of his hand towards himself. He smirked and wiggled his eyebrows. “Weird name, weird kid.” You snorted. “Where you goin’?” he asked.

“Columbus, Ohio,” you answered, “Going to visit someone.”

Hody grinned. “Funny, I’m actually heading that way myself.” He kicked the bag at his feet. You noticed his shoes were well worn, patched up in places with mismatched fabric. “Mind if I sit with you?” He leaned over to fix a latch on his bag. Behind his ear was a wing tattoo.

You scratched the same spot behind your ear. “I don’t mind.”

The twinkle reappeared in his eye. He leaned back. “It’ll be a fun trip,” he said.

Hody, as it turned out, had traveled the world. He showed you passports that he had filled over the years with dozens upon dozens of stamps from different countries. He showed you his second pair of shoes and they were even more well-worn and well-loved than the ones on his feet: the original fabric had to be gone, just as the original soles were (replaced by a smooth black sole, he told you) – they were old canvas shoes covered in pieces of fabric from denim to silk to plaid; embroidery filled in spots by the heels with beautiful patterns in various colors; the plastic that once covered the toes was cracked in various places and each crack was covered or filled in with different things – flowers in one, musical notes in another, one was turned into an arrow, while another was a trident. He offered them to you as the bus pulled into Columbus.

“You don’t have to do that, you’ve been around the world in them,” you said, shaking your head.

Hody grinned – though he really hadn’t stopped smiling since you met him – and shrugged. “Hey, everything needs a home. I think it’s time these found a new one.” He wrapped your sneakers in a plastic bag and shoved them on top of your clothes. “You should probably invest in a duffle,” he pointed out as you tied the laces of your new shoes, laces, which you noticed, were decorated with words in different languages, all stitched in different colors. “It’s a lot bigger. It’d hold your books, too.”

“Maybe I will.” You leaned backed. The shoes fit perfectly, conformed to the arches of your feet like they were made for you. You smiled. “Hey, you’ve traveled. Should I get a P.O. Box?”

He scoffed. “Yeah? You should. Can’t believe you haven’t yet.” He crossed his legs and checked his watch, a small thing hidden amongst a variety of handwoven bracelets. “Get one while you’re here. That way I can send you stuff,” he said with a wink. “You can send me stuff, too.”

You smiled. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He winked again, this time with the other eye. “I like cards, but letters are fine.” You rolled your eyes and smiled. He wrote all his information down on a section of your atlas, one that ripped out a chunk of Canada, which you tucked away in your journal. The bus pulled into the station. “Don’t you _dare_ forget to write me, okay?” he insisted as he stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. You nodded, amused, and grabbed your own bags. “I’ll know,” he added, looking back. You stepped off the bus after him.

“You’ll know?” you asked, teasing, and earning an emphatic response. “Well, I will buy stamps and get a P.O. Box right now.”

“Good,” he said, fighting a grin.

“Great,” you added.

Hody opened his arms and enveloped you in a tight hug. You grunted, surprised, and draped your arms around his shoulders. He was more built than you thought, muscles tensing as they squeezed you. He gripped your arms when he pulled away. “Watch yourself,” he insisted. His fingers pressed into you, held you firm. “It’s dangerous out here for someone like you.”

You frowned. “Someone like me?” you whispered. You thought back to the woman in the bathroom.

His finger flicked your nose and his smile turned a little mischievous, a little dangerous, and was much more at home on his face than his wide grins he’d had all morning. “Special.” His finger continued down and touched the lump of your necklace. “Chosen,” he whispered.

“Haah,” you sarcastically laughed, “Funny, Hody.”

He shrugged. “Be careful, babe,” he said, patting your shoulder. He stepped away. “Just be careful.” He walked away, headed for a group of people getting on another bus. You smiled. Shaking your head, you wandered to the information desk and asked for a map, which you paid for in cash, then asked if they could call you a cab. You waited outside and mapped out the directions to the address Ignius had given you. It wasn’t too far, about an hour if you walked, maybe. You tapped your pen against the map and looked up when the cab pulled up in front of you.

“Where to?” asked the cabbie as you climbed into the back.

You checked your map. The closest superstore was over halfway to your destination. You asked him to take you there, to the superstore. It took him forty-five minutes to get there with the morning traffic. You tipped him twice what you owed him for the ride and smiled. “Thank you.”

He was grinning when he pulled away from you.

The superstore employees shadowed you as you made your way to whichever aisle held the duffle bags, and then to the self check-out, where you bought the bag (and some headphones) and walked back out to the parking lot. It frayed your nerves, honestly. You didn’t look suspicious carrying your bags around with you! When you got outside, you found that Hody had been right – the duffle held everything you carried. You triple checked the bags before you left them sitting by the door with a note that said, ‘free to a good home’. With that, you turned your phone on and opened a playlist, pulled out your marked-up map of Columbus, and started on your way.

You stopped only once, at a post office, and made good on your promise to Hody. You felt something warm trickle through your chest as you paid up your P.O. Box for a year and tucked the keys into your bag, right on the same ring as the keys to your storage locker back in Illinois. The stamps – two sheets, one of spooky Halloween stamps that they had left over, and one sheet of Sally Ride stamps – were tucked into your journal. You waved to the woman behind the counter and hurried out, ready for your final destination.

The address you were given belonged to a beautiful apartment complex that was tragically locked. You frowned. How were you supposed to go in and meet Syne if she lived in a locked building? You sat on a bench in the park across the street and pulled open Instagram. She had an account, full of selfies that were captioned with jokes and videos that made you snicker. She was pretty, too – dark blonde curls that bounced around her head and bright green eyes that made your heart twinge a little. You pulled up her DMs and shot her a message.

_“Ignius sent me your address and told me to visit,”_ you said.

_“Oh, shit!”_ she wrote back, _“Be right down!”_

You tucked the phone and headphones back into your duffle and zipped it. Just as you patted the Velcro over the zipper, the front doors of the apartment burst open, and out bounded Syne. Her curls were held up in a bright red bandana that instantly made you think of Rosie the Riveter or a YouTuber that your sister liked to watch, and high waisted denim shorts. She threw her arms open with a bright grin. “Yo!” she called as she jogged over. “If it ain’t the Agent of Divine Chaos!”

You stood. “Excuse me?”

She looped her arm through yours and pulled you across the street. “That’s what you are, right?” She waggled her manicured eyebrows and whispered, “Mr. Wednesday’s agent?”

“Uuuhhh.”

“Wait, is that not why you’re here?” She swung the doors open and led you inside, making a beeline for an apartment down the hall. It was huge and clean and full of a mixture of old art and new technology, sharp furniture and worn blankets.

“No,” you said as you looked around. You dropped your bag by the door with a thunk.

She kicked off her slippers, bright pink bear paws that made you smile, and glanced at your shoes. “Oh, hey, you saw Hody. How’s he doin’?”

“You know him?” you asked while carefully undoing the laces. You set the shoes on top of your duffle.

“Yeah, he’s family.” Syne flopped herself into a bright pink rolling chair and slid back into her stark white glass desk. It filled a corner and was covered in computers and keyboards and circle lights and gaming systems. A set of pink headphones with bright pink ears on top sat on a hook on the wall. “So, if he didn’t send you, why are you here?” You arched an eyebrow. It was almost difficult to follow her train of thought, but you caught up. “Oh, right.” She smacked her fist into her open palm. “Ignius.”

You rubbed your forehead. It was greasy. “Yeah, yeah, Ignius,” you sighed.

She snapped her fingers and was up again, shooting past you and into her small kitchen. “You want some coffee?” she asked.

“Please,” you mumbled. You followed her until you reached the counter, which you leaned on and sighed. “I uh…I wanted to ask you about something.”

“Shoot,” she said as she rinsed out her coffee pot.

You scratched your eyebrow. Nancy’s shower felt like it was days behind you. You sighed and folded your hands together. “I have a friend whose memory is,” you trailed off and frowned, staring at your fingers, “Pretty bad.” She grabbed a pink octopus mug from her cabinet. “Ignius mentioned that you dealt in memory.”

“Dealt in?” she scoffed. She asked if you wanted cream or sugar. You replied that you’d like a little cream. She slid you the mug and leaned on the opposite side of the counter as you took it. “I am memory.”

You glanced up from the coffee. It was strong and smelled like walnuts and chocolate. You brushed the cigarette tucked behind your ear. “Are?” you asked after a moment.

Syne stepped back and took a dramatic bow. “I was once the great and powerful Mnemosyne,” she said in a deep and equally dramatic voice. She was grinning when she straightened. “Currently Meme.”

“No fucking way,” you droned. You took a long gulp of coffee.

She shrugged. “I think the whole family is in that stupid “Old Gods but New Gods” bullshit category that Ignius made up,” she explained. She set her chin on her fist. “So, what do you need me to do, huh? About this fucked up memory of your friends?”

You finished the coffee and smacked it on the counter a little harder than necessary. “More coffee first?”

Syne winked. “Can do, will do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you guys think!? I feel like the story is REALLY moving towards a climax here!! We're on our way to story lines crashing into each other!! What do you guys think of Hody and Syne??? :D I hope you're excited for the next chapter!!


	9. ...and the Forgetfulness of the World

Sweeney thought a lot as he rode through Indiana, one hand on the back of the empty bus seat between him and the window, the other on the charm that hung around his neck. He wasn’t sure if he enjoyed the silence anymore. He sure hadn’t the first time he’d tried to make it to Indiana, being left alone with his thoughts and his worries. He cleared his throat as he dropped his head back against the seat. He rubbed his thumb over the metal star in the center of his coin and thought about stories ascribed to the ones hidden somewhere above his head by the brilliant sun.

His skin pinched between the wires. He jumped, dropped the coin, and whispered a startled, “Fuck,” as he looked at his thumb. Blood smeared across the pad. He lifted the coin and the swear doubled in volume and intensity when he saw the blood on its wires. Sweeney thought of you and hoped – really hoped, and maybe prayed – that you weren’t doing something incredibly stupid without him.

In Ohio, Syne drummed her fingers on her desk. You pulled over another rolling chair, eyeing her set up nervously. “The last time I used a computer, someone decided to spy on me,” you stated.

Syne popped her gum. “Oh, yah,” she said as she worked the bubble back into the wad. “That’s Technical Boy.”

You pushed your chair away from the desk and rolled to your duffle for your notebook and journal. “Technical Boy?” you groaned as you rolled back. You clicked your pen and flopped open your notebook. You opened your journal and flipped it to the N section, where you had carefully glued all of the notes you had taken when you met Ignius. Unfolding the papers from their mess, you flipped through them until you found something that might line up with technical nonsense. “They have names?” you whispered in disbelief.

“Uh, yah,” she said in the same nasally absent tone. She grinned. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. “All the New Gods do.”

“Fuck me,” you moaned.

“Sorry, I don’t swing that way,” she commented.

You sat up. “Okay. Technical Boy. Go.”

Syne rattled off information faster than you could keep up – Technical Boy was the Internet (and computers, but the internet was the important part), he lived it, he breathed it, he gave it life while it gave it back to him. He was a freak, she commented, and was the reason behind the Old Gods’ mistrust of modern technology. He led “the techies”, a sub group of New Gods that Syne (and Rose, and Ignius, and Martin, to name the few that you recognized) fell under due to their influence and new, modern roles in the world.

She waved at the computer before her and said, “I’ve found backdoors in his backdoors. This internet thing, it’s real slick, real complicated. Practically a whole world just away from everyone else.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m a Millennial,” you replied as you wrote.

She grinned. “Yah, I know.” You rolled your eyes and continued to jot down everything. “Oh, hey, what’s this?” She pulled the journal towards her, flipping through the pages. You looked up as she did. They were fuller than you expected: business cards from Ignius, Martin, Rose; atlas page from Hody; a card from Motel America with Mama-Ji’s name; the notes from Mr. Wednesday, all glued in the order you received them; Mr. Nancy’s card; Anders’ card; Mike’s card; Mrs. Friday’s library card; information about Bast and Mr. Ibis and Mr. Jacquel; Tis’s information; an entire page and a half about Sweeney; Syne’s information; the glued in and folded notebook pages on the New Gods; entries on popular cryptids and myths and legends around the United States; every entry was filled with what you had learned about them, what you had done for them, when you had met them, what you thought about them, if you had gotten anything from them, sketches (bad sketches) of things you associated with them.

Syne whistled, “Holy shit.”

“Uh.” You sat up. “It’s…” You scratched your eyebrow. It hurt a little, and you realized you’d been doing it a lot. “You know what a rolodex is?”

“I’m ancient, not stupid,” she sighed. She flipped the pages.

You sat back. “That’s what I think of it as: a rolodex. I mean, it holds all of the information for everyone I’ve met.” You shrugged. “Can’t keep it all in my head.”

“You should.” She tapped the pages, then went back to her keyboard. “That shit would be a lethal weapon in the hands of the New Gods. Especially if you start visiting the older ones.”

You buried your head in your arms and groaned. “Cool, cool, great, okay,” you muttered. You pressed your mouth into your arms and stared at the wall.

“So, you wanna fix someone’s memory,” she said as she continued to type. “Leprechauns are old fucks,” she mused. She tilted her head. You turned your head towards her, watching as she typed. She was putting something together on her screen, which you couldn’t really decipher. “Sweeney? Sweeney is older than fuck.”

“You know him?” you asked. You closed your eyes. God, you were exhausted. When had you last truly rested? So much had happened one right after the other, you just wanted a fucking nap.

“A lot of people know him. He’s a fuck up,” she said. Her printer fired up. “Well, if Mr. Wednesday’s word is anything to go by, and he’s a god damn liar on the best of days.”

“Hm.”

“People says you’re his, you know,” Syne said. You opened your eyes. “Word gets around.” You scratched the corner of your eye and looked up at her again. She was leaning back in her seat, staring, looping her arm over the back of her seat. She grinned. “Whose name do you whisper in the late night hours, my little agent?”

“Stoooooop,” you groaned.

“C’mooooon.”

You yanked the paper off the printer and sat back. “I whisper nothing but ‘fuck’ and how good it feels because if anyone knows how to please me best, it’s me,” you sarcastically answered.

She hooted and slapped her knee.

You waved the paper at her. “Okay, what is this?” You shook the paper harder.

She leaned back, tucking her ankle under her thigh. She suddenly looked less like a young woman and more like a prophet ready to dole out wisdom for a Starbucks drink. “Fixing someone’s memory isn’t easy. It requires a lot power, a lot of little components that fall into place at the right moment.” She nodded her head at the paper. “Those are the instructions.”

You looked down at them. There were lists, diagrams, figures. You shook your head. “These read like a fuckin’ Ikea manual,” you slowly pointed out.

She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been around a foul-mouthed leprechaun for far too long,” she said.

Your head started to hurt. You rubbed the inner corners of your eyes and groaned. “Yeah, yeah, I know….” You dropped your head over the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t think he’s a leprechaun,” you mumbled, slowly turning your chair.

Syne was smiling when you faced her again, like she knew something.

“What?” you asked.

She shook her head. “Where you goin’ next?” she asked as she stood.

You folded the instructions into your journal. “Nebraska,” you finally answered. You creased the instructions, frowning. You knew the apathy was setting in with your exhaustion, despite how much you didn’t want it to. You rubbed the heels of your palms into your eyes. “And then Indiana,” you added. You closed up your notebooks and stood. “What do I owe you for all of this?” you asked, “I know favors don’t come cheap.”

“Oh, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you,” she mused. She set another cup of coffee in front of you. You grumbled a thank you. “Listen,” she said as she sat back down, “I only ask for repayment if you use it.”

“And what do you want if I do?” you mumbled into your coffee.

She rested her cheek on her fist and smiled. “Tell me what you find out. He’s ancient, that leprechaun. I wanna know his story.”

You gave her a thumbs-up while finishing your coffee, then asked for another cup. She told you to stay a while, relax, and that Nebraska wasn’t going anywhere. You collapsed onto her couch and were out in seconds.

Sweeney’s bus pulled into Indianapolis around noon. He wandered to the parking lot of the bus station, rubbing his neck, glancing around, doing his best to hide his seven-foot frame even though it was almost impossible. He stole a truck – some beat up thing – and made his way to Eagle Point as slowly as he could on the back roads. He twirled the charm around his throat as he drove. He wondered where you were. He knew your number, though, and Wednesday had said there was a Motel America in Eagle Point. He could call.

He would call.

He swallowed and found his throat drier than it had any right to be.

He looked at the seat next to him and sighed.

“Hey.” Syne patted your foot. “Hey, there’s someone here for you.” You groaned at her words, peeking up from where you had buried your head in her couch cushions. She was sipping from an ugly sculpted squirrel mug. She jerked her head towards the door. “Visitor.”

“What?” You sat up. How did anyone know you were here? You hadn’t told anyone where you were going, had you? You twisted around and leaned over the arm of the couch.

Your visitor was a raven; Huginn, if the churning thoughts and feeling of dread that settled in your chest were enough to go by. He gingerly set an envelope down and cawed at you, fluttering his wings. You pushed your hands into your eyes and groaned, flopping half over the couch. “I don’t wanna get up.”

“Caw!” said the raven.

“Ugh,” you said as you flopped back on the couch.

The giant corvid flapped his wings and said, “Get up,” in a deep voice that really should not have belonged to a raven.

You blinked at the ceiling, then scrambled over the arm of the couch, hanging off as you stared at him. Syne snorted. The raven closed his wings and tottled off down the hall. Syne picked up the envelope and closed the door. “You’ve never heard a raven speak before, have you?” she asked as she held the envelope out.

You hesitantly took it. “No,” you finally said, still staring at the door, “Where I come from, birds don’t generally talk.”

“Corvid,” she corrected. You were reminded of yourself, speaking to Sweeney. You rolled your eyes up at her. She shrugged and continued to drink. “What’d you get?” she asked.

“Can I?” You looked up from the envelope, which you had yet to open, and waved it in her general direction. “I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Then open it,” she said.

“Oh my god you’re just as fucking bad as he is,” you muttered. She sucked on her teeth and leaned back against the counter, muttering something under her breath as you opened the envelope. Inside was a small stack of money – two thousand dollars, you counted twice – and a note that only said ‘NEBRASKA’. You groaned and rubbed your forehead. This was getting to be a nightmare. Were you ever going to rest?

You stretched, squinting at the window to find the sun still out. You hardly napped at all, and Syne confirmed your fears when she said it had only been two hours. You shuffled over to your duffle and grabbed the first envelope, dividing up the money between large and small bills, and shoving the former further into your bag, sandwiched in your folded socks. “I guess I should go,” you said as you pulled on your shoes.

“Hey, give me your number,” Syne insisted. She clicked a pen and propped her foot against the couch, sipping her coffee and scribbling the numbers on her knee. You shook your head. “I wanna keep in touch with you. Might be able to keep Technical Bitch off your back for a while if I’m the one talking with you.”

You nodded and straightened, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks for this,” you said with a tired smile. “I’ve,” you pressed your lips together and looked down at your feet. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Syne kept her smile to herself. “He’s gotta be pretty special for you to come all this way,” she insisted.

You snorted. “A special pain in my ass,” you grumbled, touching the necklace beneath your shirt. You opened the door. “Thanks again.”

“Wait.” Syne grabbed your arm. She smiled – it wasn’t friendly, but afraid. She pulled on a pair of flip flops and grabbed her keys. “Lemme drive you to the bus station. I’ll buy you a ticket. Completely on me.”

“Okay?” you drawled, frowning, stepping out into the hall. She locked the door behind her and looped her arm through yours, pulling you towards the front doors. You passed through the lobby, almost bumping into the legs of someone who was sprawled on the front couch. When you glanced up to apologize, you could have sworn they didn’t have a face. You twisted around, shoving your hair out of your eyes, and saw that they were looking down at their phone, their baseball cap obscuring their features.

Syne pulled you out into the parking lot before you could get a better look.

Sweeney stole a phone in Eagle Point: some girl wasn’t paying attention at the gas station, left her phone on the counter after she paid. The cashier didn’t even notice him pocket it, being too busy judging his purchase of cheap whiskey and Cheetos (a purchase, mind you, that was made with money he had picked from the pocket of the old man snoozing in the gas station café). Sweeney wandered back to his stolen truck and tapped your number into the girl’s phone, leaned against the door, and pressed send. He swung the bag into the front seat and waited.

You picked up after three rings. “Hello?” you asked warily.

He snorted.

“Sweeney?” You sounded more excited than insecure.

He smiled. His fingers brought a cigarette to his lips, then his lighter to the end, and finally rested on the coin that lay against his bare chest, right underneath the topmost done button of his shirt. “Didja make it to Ohio in one piece?” he rasped. He cleared his throat and pulled the phone away to swear at himself. It hadn’t been that long since he’d seen you last! Maybe twelve hours at most! Why was he like that?

“Made it, yeah. Feel like I’m about to fall apart at the joints, though,” you honestly replied.

He frowned. “Why’s that? You alright?” He turned and opened the truck’s door. Ohio wasn’t too far away from where he was, and the back roads weren’t patrolled nearly as much, plus, with his luck, he could make it there going a hundred and not get stopped once, easy.

“Just tired.” You yawned. Another voice talked behind you, asking if you needed coffee or something. You replied with a snarky, “Or something.”

“You with someone?” Sweeney rested his boot on the floor of the cab, puffing at his cigarette, glaring at pavement beneath him.

“Her name is Syne,” you said. He’d heard that name before, but he couldn’t be sure where. He scratched his head, cursing his shit memory. “She’s keeping me company while I wait for the bus to Nebraska.”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat again. “What’s in Nebraska?”

“Corn,” you griped. You shifted. “Listen, I know movies are, like, not that big on your list.” He could hear you roll your eyes, honestly. “But we haven’t watched Children of the Corn yet, and we’re going to, so you can understand why I loathe corn fields with a passion.”

“It’s a fuckin’ field, what’s it gonna dodaya?” he asked. A smile worked its way across his face. He knocked his head against the door frame and sighed.

“Listen, it’s not the field, but what’s in it, okay?” you defended with an indignant sniff. Syne’s voice appeared in the background again. “Hey, I gotta go, okay? My bus is loading, and I’ve got the longest ride ahead of me.”

“How long?” he asked when he meant ‘be careful’.

“Ninteen hours, and at least six different buses,” you replied.

He hissed. That was rough, and he told you as much.

He heard you breathing on the other end and the sound your mouth made when you licked your bottom lip. “I’ll see you soon?” you asked as though you wouldn’t see him soon.

“See you soon,” he confirmed, though he meant to say he missed you.

You ended the call and shoved your phone into your back pocket.

(One state over, Sweeney slid the phone across the parking lot to the girl’s car, climbed into the truck, and pulled back out onto the road, his fingers clutching and twisting the coin charm like it was a string of fucking prayer beads in a desperate sinner’s hand.)

Syne threw her arms around you and squeezed you tight. “Be careful,” she whispered in your ear. She rubbed your back and squeezed even tighter, until something in your back gave a satisfying pop. “You’re on their radar.”

You frowned at her when she pulled away. “Whose?”

Her smile was a little sad. “You know.” And then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd like a black out memory.

You gripped your duffle bag strap and climbed onto the bus, sat near the back, and took up the window seat. Your bag sat beside you, filling the space meant for a man that you wished was there with you. You slumped in your seat. If you called that number back, would he pick up? You knew the answer, honestly, but you still hoped. You twisted the charm around your fingers and leaned against the window.

You were out like a light.

(Let it be known that you did in fact wake up when you needed to change buses. It wasn’t hard – bus windows are not the best things to sleep against.)

Sweeney sat in the truck three houses down from Laura Moon’s house. He’d been there about an hour, chain smoking until he was dizzy. He’d seen her come home – she was pretty, and tiny, he thought, but even from a distance he could see the weight she carried in her shoulders. It reminded him of you just a little. He hoped you’d remembered to take your meds. He left for a bit, went to steal a bottle of whiskey, and returned just in time to see a car pulling up in front of the house. It wasn’t a car he recognized, and but he did recognize the guy climbing out of it from the picture he had received from _Grimnir_ – Robbie. And Robbie was sauntering up to Laura Moon’s door, and using a key – a key, what the fuck – to get in.

Sweeney slouched in the seat and drank the bottle.

There was far too long until nightfall, and it gave him way too much time to think.

(When his thoughts did wander, they wandered only briefly to what he needed to do. Then, they wandered to your bus, how he hoped you were safe, and lastly to his guilt that if he hadn’t walked through your door that day, you wouldn’t be on a bus alone in the first place. He finished the bottle before the sun set.)

You read over Syne’s papers on the last bus to Hastings when you couldn’t sleep, using a little reading light you had purchased in the last bus station. Couldn’t sleep didn’t mean you didn’t want to.

You were exhausted from little naps, meeting new people, having to go from place to place without actual rest. You rubbed your eyes after reading the same sentence five times and clicked off the reading light. It made little sense to you, but you couldn’t tell if it was from your sleep deprived brain being unable to process anything or if the information was just that convoluted. You thumped your head back against the seat.

There were few lights on in the city when the bus approached the Hastings, Nebraska station. You slid the papers into your duffle and disembarked with the other four people on the bus. You looked around the station and rubbed your hair, grimacing at the feel of the oil built up in your scalp. It was the downfall of traveling, really – you somehow got dirtier if you traveled versus if you didn’t.

The station didn’t have a building, but was just a ticket booth, a few benches, and a bulletin board. On the board was a brightly colored sign advertising a twenty-four-hour café. You leaned over to take down the address, hoping that you could find a hotel while you drank something caffeinated. A man sidled up beside you and reached for the ads, tilting down his baseball cap. From the corner of your eye, you could have sworn it was the same man you had seen in Syne’s apartment building, the one without the face.

You stepped away to start walking towards the café. It wasn’t too far.

A neon blue owl hung in the window of the café. It was cute and held a sign in its little claws that read _The Night Owl Café_. You pushed the door open with your shoulder. A metal bell rang. The smell of coffee and freshly baked pastries made your entire body relax. You thought you’d fall asleep right in the doorway.

“Welcome,” said a woman from behind the counter. She smiled when you met her gaze. She was young, and pretty, with long dark hair that was braided down her back and deep brown eyes. She was sliding a bowl of soup across the counter to the only other customer in the shop, a young man with puffy red eyes. “Sit anywhere you’d like, and I’ll be over to take your order in a moment.”

“Thank you,” you replied. You swung your duffle into a booth by the window and sat down. The young man took his soup to the booth in the corner, sniffling, tearing up. He picked up the bowl and slurped straight from it.

“That’s the house special,” said the woman as she wandered over to you. She clicked her pen against her notepad and smiled. “It’s also available in tea, if you travel. Soup doesn’t hold very well on the road for too long.”

“Uh, no,” you whispered. You cleared your throat and sat back. “Could I get a,” your eyes flicked up to the menu above her head, “A chai? And an everything bagel? With cream cheese.”

Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Of course. And your name?”

You looked around the empty café, then at her as you gave it to her.

She shook her head. “It’s a force of habit, I’m sorry.” She smiled. “I’ll be right back out with your order.” She turned, but not before you saw her name tag – Mei.

You sat back, scratched your cheek, and pulled out the papers from Syne. Maybe you could make more sense of them now that you weren’t on the bus. They were instructions on how to restore a memory, and they were very concise: if you wanted to restore his memory quickly, you would need a…

You tilted your head. Was that Greek?

“Here you are.” You looked up. Mei smiled. She set your cup down, your bagel next to it. Your stomach growled. “Been a long day?” she asked as you devoured your bagel. You nodded, picked up your chai, and took a long drink.

The young man was smiling as he walked past you to the door, his eyes dry.

“Is there anything I could help you with?” Mei asked. She sat in the booth across from you, folding her cleaning rag beside your drink.

You finally swallowed your food. “Um…” Holy hell did the food perk you up. You patted your pocket and pulled out the rumpled paper with the address on it. “I’m looking for this address,” you said. You took another deep drink as she unfolded the paper. “I’m supposed to meet someone there.” Your knee started to bounce.

Her eyes flicked up to your face. You wiped the foam from your mouth, pausing at the corner of your lip. Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong for her to be looking at you like that. You swallowed nervously, the bagel forming a lump in your throat.

Then she smiled and laughed. She leaned back against the booth and her giggles filled the café until there was no space for anything else.

You would normally laugh along with her – your mania often crept in when you were tired, following your apathy, and fuck, you were tired. But this laugh seemed almost menacing. Or maybe you were just too exhausted to read it any differently.

She slid the paper over to you. “You’re here,” she replied.

“I’m what?”

“The address.” She tapped the paper with her finger. “It’s this café. You found it.”

Oh. That explained why it was funny.

Mei leaned forward and tilted your cup. “You wanted a chai latte, right? If not, I can make you the tea.”

“No, no, this is what I wanted,” you replied. You pulled the cup closer to you. “So, um,” you cleared your throat, “Wednesday – Mr. Wednesday sent me.”

“I figured.”

“Oh,” you whispered. You downed your chai. “Um.” You pressed your lips together and cleared your throat. “Is there something you want me to do for you?” you asked.

Mei leaned back in her seat. She wasn’t menacing – despite the strange peals of laughter before – but she was calm, almost serene. She smiled. It was comforting. You finished your bagel. She sat up. “Come do some dishes with me,” she said. She stood from the booth. “You can throw your bag behind the bar.”

You picked up your dishes and did as she told, setting your bag behind the register, taking your dishes to the sink in the back. You rolled up the sleeves of your sweatshirt and stood next to her as she scrubbed the dishes.

“This isn’t the favor,” she said, then tilted her head and added, “Not that kind of favor.”

“What kind of favor is this?” you asked as you dried the dishes. You looked around the kitchen and set them on the dish rack by the ovens.

“This is for a room,” she said, “And a shower.”

You sniffed your sweatshirt as you wandered back. It smelled like a bus. You groaned. “Okay.” You picked up the rag. “What’s your other favor?”

She hummed. “Dishes first. Rest. A shower.” She looked over. “Then, in the morning, you’ll do your favor and be on your way.”

You nodded and focused on the dishes. “What’s your name?” you finally asked once the sink was empty.

Mei was drying her hands, humming a song to herself. “I assume you mean my real name,” she said. You nodded slowly. You folded the towel and hung it from the bar above the sink. She leaned her hip against its lip and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I hear you’re a master at the research part,” she said. You smiled and looked down at your shoes. Patched up as they were, they still looked pristine. You nodded, though, and looked back up. She smoothed her knuckles over your cheek. “Look into Chinese mythology,” she murmured, “and soup.”

You blinked. “Soup?” you repeated.

She nodded, then handed you a key. “This is to the apartment upstairs,” she explained. “Make yourself at home. And leave the door unlocked, please? That’s the only key I have.” She patted your cheek. “You can use the room next to the bathroom.”

“Thank you, Mei.” You hurried out from the back room, picked up your bag, and followed a small hall to the stairs. You hurried up them and stopped, looking between two doors in the hall. One was blue, with a cute welcome mat. The other was red, with a plain welcome mat and a pair of shoes next to it. You unlocked the red door and pushed it open, pulling your shoes off with your fingers and carrying them inside.

Your room was right where she said it would be, and was already prepared – the bed was made, the pillows arranged just how you liked them, and the curtains on the windows were opened. There was a towel folded neatly on the bed. You set your shoes down next to the door, fished around in your duffle for a clean shirt and underwear, and quickly went to shower.

The moment the water hit your back, you teared up. Everything hit you, crumbled around your shoulders as the mental foundations holding them up gave out. You crouched under the stream and wrapped your arms around your shins, taking in deep, trembling breaths. It was the exhaustion; you knew it was – the exhaustion and the stress. You shoved your hands through your hair and dropped your chin to your chest, exhaling slowly. You hadn’t been doing the job for that long, why were you having such a break down? You scrubbed your face. Maybe you would call your sister? That sounded good.

After a shower. You stood, scrubbed your hair, scrubbed your face, scrubbed your body. You climbed out after standing under the water for another ten minutes and grabbed the towel. The apartment was still quiet as you got dressed and wandered back to the bedroom. Your phone sat on the bed.

You swallowed.

After you researched. You nodded to yourself and dug the books out of your bag, dropping them all on the bedspread, then flipped open your notebook and your journal. You turned the books over and crossed your legs. There was the book Mr. Wednesday got you (which you still hadn’t read), a Norse mythology book, some Greek and Roman books you had left over from school, Japanese mythology, Native American religious studies, a few different books on various myths from Africa, Celtic mythology, myths of the Pacific Islanders. You frowned. You didn’t have anything on Chinese mythology. Patting the bed, you pulled out your phone and entered exactly what Mei had told you to enter – Chinese myths and soup.

The first entry on google was for Meng Po, goddess of forgetfulness. You smiled a little when you saw that she served soup on the Bridge of Forgetfulness in the afterlife. Your smile faded when you saw it was for people to forget their past lives, but all so that they could be reincarnated without any burdens. You scribbled the information down under the M section for Mei and swore when you realized you didn’t write it in the notebook first when you scratched out a misspelling in pen. You tapped the pen cap against the page and lifted the coin up against your lips, balancing it against your mouth.

You wondered if Mr. Wednesday had sent you to her on purpose.

Shaking your head, you pulled out the papers from Syne and sat back against the wall, shifting the pillows behind your back until you were comfortable. There was a lot for you to decipher from them, and now you had the time.

Sleep could wait, you told yourself as you rubbed your burning eyes. Sleep could wait.

A knock startled you. You hesitated, staring out into the hall of Mei’s apartment. Maybe you’d imagined it? Maybe it wasn’t really a knock? Then, it came again, and you bolted from the bedroom to the front door, checking it. You hadn’t locked it, just like she told you not to.

“Hey,” called a voice from the other side, “Miss Mei told me to come here up and check on you.”

You opened the door. A girl stood there, tugging up the shoulder of a loose green cable knit cardigan. Her red hair was pulled up in a messy, spent bun at the crown of her head and pieces fell into her absolutely tired brown eyes. She smiled. “I’m Lynne.” She motioned to the door across the hall with her head. “The neighbor.”

“Oh.”

She waved a ring covered hand down the stairs. “Mei wanted me to see if you needed anything washed.” She waved the other way and you saw her nails were covered in chipped blue polish. “The building only has one washer, so if you did, I was gonna throw some stuff in with you, if that’s okay.”

“Oh!” You looked back into the apartment. “Yeah, sure, okay.” You scrambled to the bathroom, where you had left your dirty clothes, grabbed them, and the towel, and more of your clothes from your duffle before rushing back to her. “Thank you.”

Her eyes flicked down past your waist, then back up to your face with an amused smile. “You wanna put some pants on. The laundry room’s cold.”

You almost dropped the clothes right there. Lynne pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan and took them, letting you run back and dig through your bag for a pair of pants. At the bottom was a pair of large sweatpants that made you tilt your head. You tugged them on. They were massive. You hobbled back to the door while rolling up the cuffs of the pants.

“Steal your boyfriend’s pants or something?” Lynne asked when you returned.

You snapped your head up, blinked, then groaned. No wonder they were so big – you’d gotten them for Sweeney when he kept coming over so he had something clean to sleep in. You rolled the waistband down and snatched your clothes back with a sharp, “No.”

“Look like it,” she said. You shut the door. “I’m surprised Mei let you stay in her apartment,” she mused as she led you down the hall. “She’s pretty picky. Only let me stay there when my bathroom flooded.”

“I helped her wash the dishes,” you said.

Lynne nodded as she opened the laundry room door. It was more of a closet, really, with a single washer and dryer sat side by side. You dropped your clothes in one at a time as the washer started to fill with water, while Lynne went back to her apartment and grabbed her clothes. She wandered back, sans shoes, and in a pair of loose pajama pants. She leaned back against the washer once it was full and running.

“So, what favor are you doing for her, I Dream of Jennie?” she asked, crossing her arms and her ankles. She’d fixed the bun. As you gaped at her, Lynne fished around in her cardigan pocket and pulled out a bag of Skittles. She tipped some into your hand.

“Uh, she hasn’t told me,” you finally said. You popped a Skittle into your mouth. “How do you know?” You shook your head. “Are you…”

She snorted. “Not like Mei, if that’s what you’re asking,” she murmured. The washer started its spin cycle. She pushed away from it and stepped out into the hall. “Wanna watch a movie?” You threw another few Skittles into your mouth. “And drink?” she added.

You nodded. “Don’t think I took my meds today, so yes. Fuck, yes.”

Lynne snorted. She unlocked her door and ushered you inside. You dropped the rest of the Skittles into your mouth as you looked around, shuffling past a long kitchen counter and into a homey living room. Lynne had shelves lining the room, covered in things – jars, bowls, books, trinkets, tons of things, each with little tags that had various names printed across them. You leaned over one as you chewed on the candy. It was a perfect glass orb, hollowed out, and housed an island with a lighthouse. There were birds, a breeze, a ship in the distance. It all moved.

“Someone wanted a piece of home,” she said as she wandered back to you. She held out a glass filled with whiskey.

“So, you made it?” you whispered.

She shrugged and leaned against the shelf. “Kinda. They gave me a picture. I just made it real.” You cut your eyes to her as you drank. “I’m a witch.”

“Seriously?”

She shrugged and cradled her glass against her chest, staring at the objects in front of you. “Seriously.” She thumped her head against the shelf. “I was just a practicing witch, doing like…rituals and stuff? Tarot, tinctures, sigils.” She took a slow drink from her glass. “And then some girl in my class saw my stuff and asked me if I could make something for her.” She rolled her eyes. “She caught her boyfriend cheating on her, she was pissed, she heard that witches could cast curses.”

“Oooh,” you warbled, wiggling your fingers.

She laughed. “Exactly. But,” she shrugged and pushed away from the shelf, “She offered me a hundred bucks after I told her no five times. So, I made her something.” Lynne flopped onto the couch. “Pa-choo,” she smacked her hand against her glass, “Boyfriend’s car got stuck on some train tracks.”

You sat next to her, staring. She nodded. “Holy shit,” you whispered.

She finished her drink in one large gulp. “She told her friends. Her friends told their friends.” She tilted her head and stared into her drink. “People started believing in me.” Her smile was bitter and cold. She smacked her lips and stood with a groan. “Belief ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

You drank slowly, watching as she filled her glass with American Honey. “So, you’re saying that belief made your magic real?” you slowly asked.

She drank half the glass before she sat down. “Sure fucking did,” she said, “That’s why I moved and came all the way out here. Not as many people to believe, you know?” She tilted her head. “That’s how I met Mei. She sniffed me out.”

“What, she sniffed you out because of your magic?” you asked.

She picked up the remote and turned on her PlayStation. She waited until she selected a movie and settled back against the cushions to answer you, “She sniffed out a New God.”

In Eagle Point, Sweeney’s steps were carefully measured as he made his way to the dead woman on the road. He needed to make sure she was dead – that was the deal, she had to be dead. She was in awful shape, that much was obvious – her legs were bent awkwardly at the hips, her arm twisted unnaturally. Her brown eyes stared at him. He could see the last bit of life leave them, flatten them, and thought he could see her soul leave her body.

A raven cawed behind him. It had to be Huginn – he was consumed by his thoughts, about how he finally killed for _Grimnir_ , and there was no going back now. Could he tell you that? Could he admit to you that he killed someone as recently as thirty seconds ago?

He looked up at Huginn with a scowl. “Tell ‘im it’s done.”

Huginn cawed again and took off.

Sweeney finally released his clenched fist. He curled his trembling fingers again his mouth.

Why weren’t you there with him when he needed to talk to someone, he asked himself as he hooked a finger around his charm.

At least you weren’t there to see him in such a state, to see him standing inches from a puddle of blood that was forming beneath the dead wife’s head.

What would you do if you found out he’d killed someone, he thought as he stalked back to the truck.

Motel America wasn’t too far – he’d passed it on the way in. He could rest. He could drink. He could call you.

He would call you.

He had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOF OKAY!! WERE FINALLY BREACHING THE SERIES!!! (nine chapters later) What do you guys think of Syne now that she's kinda shown her real alliances? What about the mysterious (hah) person in her front lobby? Lynne is my personal favorite (im a little biased but /eh) but MEI!! IM SO EXCITED FOR MEI AND WHAT SHE STANDS FOR!!! UGH!! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! :D Please tell me what you think!!


	10. ...and the Loss of a King's Treasure

The world felt a little weird when you wandered back to Mei’s apartment in the early hours. Maybe it was the whiskey Lynne had poured you – if she was a witch, did she enchant it? You hadn’t gotten a chance to ask. You shut the door, made sure the key was on the table by it, and shuffled through the apartment to the room.

Maybe it was that your perception changed a little bit – Lynne’s magic was the second real magic you had seen since being employed by Mr. Wednesday, if you didn’t count Mr. Nancy’s spiders. And she said it came from people’s belief in her. You knew belief was a thing with Sweeney, he’d said it before, but you hadn’t heard it for anyone else. Not that you could remember. You frowned and scratched your head. Had you? You shoved your hands in the pockets of your – Sweeney’s – sweatpants. A handful of cold gold coins sat in one pocket. You clicked your tongue and dropped them onto the nightstand, then touched your necklace.

Maybe it was Sweeney. You wondered where he was, remembered he was in Indiana, wondered why, what happened, if he was okay.

You sat on the bed, scrubbing your face, and pulled the books back in order. Your phone rang. It startled you because the ringer was on, and the apartment was silent, and it not only rang but vibrated against your butt on the mattress and made you release a small scream.

A number from Indiana flashed across your screen before it went to voicemail. You swore and called them back. Whoever it was, they picked up on the first ring, and whispered your name in such a broken and tiny voice that you almost didn’t recognize them.

Almost.

“Sweeney?” you whispered.

“I did something,” he rasped, “I didn’t want to, but he told me it needed to be done, that I had to do it, ‘else he wouldn’t hold up his end of our deal.” His words bled together as he spoke a mile a minute, breathing in such a way that you thought he might cry. That was absurd though, right? Sweeney didn’t cry. At least, you’d never seen him cry.

You sank back against the pillows. “What happened?” you softly asked.

You thought he hit his forehead against the phone booth. “No,” he murmured.

“Okay, that’s fine, you don’t have to tell me,” you said. You glanced at the door. Mei hadn’t heard the phone go off, or if she did, she didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure she had come up from the café yet. “Are you somewhere safe?”

“‘m in a phone booth,” he mumbled. You rolled your eyes. He thunked his head against the phone and you frowned. “’m outside the Motel America.”

“Okay, good, you should get a room,” you said.

Sweeney sighed something heavy. You could hear him ruffle his hair. You sat up and tilted your head back, holding your ankles together, and closed your eyes. You could just imagine that he was there, staring down at you as he said, “Got one ‘fore I called,” while you tilted your head up to look into his face.

His bloodshot eyes were rimmed with red – either from him rubbing his eyes or actually crying, you didn’t know. His head was leaned against the top of the phone booth, just the corner, while his eyes darted over your face. “Talk to me,” he whispered, “Please.”

You released a sharp sigh, sitting up further, wanting to reach out and touch him but knowing it wouldn’t be appreciated – not now. “You still have that necklace, right?” you quietly asked. “The charm that I made?”

“Course I do,” he answered. His voice was hoarse. “Why?”

“Just...when you get like this, and I don’t answer? Look at it.” He started to protest. “Listen, it helps okay? Just use it to remember that...” You shifted in your spot and whispered even softer than you had before, “It doesn’t matter if we’re thousands of miles away from each other or...or worlds apart for some reason.” You shrugged, and found your face burning hotter the longer you waited to finish your thought. “I’ve got your back.” The words were almost nonexistent on your tongue.

He didn’t say anything. You started to call his name but paused as you heard something that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle. Instead, he coughed, cleared his throat, and said, “Why wouldn’t you be answerin’?”

You smiled. “Just in case.”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Nebraska.” You stretched over the bed and dug around in your bag for your latest note. “And in the morning, I head to Indiana. Eagle Point is the last stop,” you said as you searched. Sweeney grunted, shifted around, leaned back against the phone booth wall.

“Why you comin’ to Eagle Point?” he asked

You frowned. “Coming?” Sitting up more, you cleared your throat and asked, “Are you in Eagle Point?”

“Yeah,” he grunted.

You frowned and looked at the note. ‘Jack’s Crocodile Bar, 7:30PM.’ You curled up and tugged the blanket over your legs, burying back into the pillows. When you hit your books, you cradled the phone between your shoulder and ear and started to carefully load them back into your bag. You grabbed your charger before your sat up. “You called me to talk,” you said when Sweeney said nothing. You smiled. “Even though you don’t like me having a phone.”

“Causes trouble,” he murmured a little fondly.

“So, talk,” you said. You plugged the phone in and turned out the light. “Actually, is there a phone in your room?” you asked.

Sweeney shifted again. “Think so.”

“Call me back from there, silly,” you murmured, “It’s free.” You yawned.

“Silly,” he repeated back at you. You responded with a tired laugh. “Hold on.” The line cut. You shifted around in bed, stretched the cord as much as possible to set the phone on the pillow next to you. You hugged another pillow tight and stared, waited, listened. You grabbed the phone with a gentle swear and turned off the ringer, only for it to vibrate in your hands with another Indiana number. You picked it up and put it on speaker. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you said. You rolled over to make sure you had shut the door to the bedroom.

“Are you in bed?” he asked with a groan. You heard the creak of springs and the switch of a light.

There was something in his voice that made you slowly answer, “I am.”

He chuckled. It was warm, and drunk, and crawled right down your spine.

The light of your phone turned off. You could almost see him in the dark, lying right in front of you, facing you, the blanket pooled around his hips half-hazardly, more for your comfort than for his. His face was worn, a little dirty, at least dirtier than it had been when you could (imagine him) see him in the phone booth. His breathing was soft. He probably hadn’t showered, probably still smelled like smoke and sweat, tobacco and cloves, just like he had when you had rested your head on his shoulder and slept when you last saw him. You closed your eyes. He was so close you could taste all of that. You reached out and traced his wiry beard up his jaw, over the peach fuzz, the closely cropped undercut, to the longer, curling hairs atop his head.

He shifted under your hand. His fingers trailed down your wrist, over the flesh of your inner arm, your elbow, your bicep. You could feel them trace over your throat, the chain that hung there, to your pulse that jumped and raced at his intimate touch. He gripped the tiny hairs that curled at the base of your skull.

“You’re drunk,” he pointed out in a voice no louder than a gasp.

“Just a little,” you responded just the same.

He shifted closer. You felt his breath on your face. Southern Comfort and the sticky sweet smell of Coke coated your tongue. You wondered where he stole it from. “You should sleep,” he said.

“So should you,” you replied. You leaned into his hand and sighed. He shifted. His knee nudged yours. The dip in the bed from his weight let him slip it under yours. You hummed and murmured, “Sleep long enough and I’ll be there.”

Sweeney was half gone when he replied, “Motel America, at six. Gotta be somewhere at seven.”

“’s a date,” you breathed.

He snorted.

The morning light filtered in through the window across the room, waking you from a deep slumber. You rolled over, half expecting to find Sweeney, but instead found your phone atop the bedspread. When you checked it, you saw your call had ended, and the phone was charged. You climbed out of bed. Your clothes were dry and folded on top of your duffle. You changed, rolled up your pajamas and threw them into your bag with the rest of your clothes, grabbed your phone and charger, the coins, double checked the room, and headed out into the living room with all your stuff. Mei stood in the kitchen, sipping tea, standing by a plate of breakfast and a steaming cup of something for you. You set your things by the couch and sat down in front of the plate.

“I know my favor,” she mused.

You took a bite of your food and groaned. It was the best thing you had eaten in so long. You nodded at her to continue as you shoveled food into your mouth.

“The young man that was in my shop last night?” she asked as she slid your cup over to you. It was tea. You took a slow drink of it, glancing up. “I want you to check on him.”

You swallowed. “The soup guy?” you asked slowly, looking down at your plate. It was empty. You stood and washed it in her sink, then put it away, same with the silverware.

Mei nodded. “Yes. His name is Jason.”

You sat back down and searched through one of the pockets of your duffle, pulling out your medication, swallowing down a dose with a warm gulp of tea. “Alright,” you said once the pills were back in the pocket. “Where would I find him?”

She smiled. “Just across the street, at the hardware store.”

You were taken aback. It was a relatively easy favor. You finished your tea and nodded, standing again to wash your cup. “Alright. Is there anything you need me to report? Anything I need to look out for?”

She tilted her head and leaned back against the counter. “Ask him about Ana. Come back and tell me what he says. Then, I’ll consider your favor done.” She smiled. “I’ll hold your bag for you downstairs.”

You nodded and picked up your shoes, paused to grab your wallet from the bag, and headed for the door. “Anything else that I can do for you?” you asked, turning to her. You pulled on the shoes, careful to not fold the heels under your foot. They slipped on easily. “Not that this is a small favor, I suppose, but I feel like I should do more for you.”

“This will be enough,” she said. “I’ll have something for you as well. A treat, if you will. In case things become too much for you.”

You stumbled as you pulled on your other shoe, frowning a bit, tugging down your tee shirt to the top of your shorts. “Okay?” you said. You opened the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs then?”

She nodded. “The hardware store should be open by now,” she said. Then, she turned away.

You headed down the stairs, through the small hall, and out into the café. Lynne was working the front counter. She waved as you passed. You waved back, shouldering open the door with a smile. It was wonderful outside, with Spring full in bloom all around you. You wrinkled your nose, though, as you caught a whiff of something that put you on the verge of sneezing. Checking both ways, you jogged across the street and ducked into the hardware store.

It was quaint, the kind of hardware store you’d seen in some romance movie, with short shelves and cute Easter decorations already up. You reached up as you walked under a colorful pastel egg that hung from the ceiling to touch it. When you looked around, you spotted a young man – no, THE young man behind the front counter. He wore a little navy-blue apron around his waist, and a name tag that read ‘Jason’ in block chalk letters.

You wandered through the aisles. Was there anything you needed? You had a pocketknife, so that wouldn’t be a problem. You walked around an aisle and scooped up a first-aid kit from one of the bottom shelves. You could need this. It would be better than risking not having it.

You walked up to the counter, to Jason, and set it down.

He smiled. “Just this?” he asked.

You nodded and pulled out a twenty. “Yes, please.” He picked it up. He was smiling. He seemed happy. “How’s Ana?” you asked.

He glanced up absently, looking back down to bag your kit. “Who?” His smile had shifted to one a little more confused. He exchanged your twenty for the bag, got you change, and held it out for you. “I don’t know an Ana.”

“Oh.” You shoved the change in your pocket with a soft, “My mistake.”

Jason grinned. “Anything else?” You shook your head. “Well, then, you have a good day.”

You smiled and nodded. “You, too.” You tilted your head. “Jason.”

His grin grew brighter and your heart squeezed a little tight as you wondered if this Ana was missing him just as much as he had missed her before the soup. You walked out of the store, checked both ways again, and headed back to the café.

Lynne waved at the booth by the window when you walked in. Your duffle sat there, with an everything bagel, cream cheese, and a chai latte. A small metal tin sat by it and Mei sat opposite. You sat down, setting your shopping bag next to your plate. “Well?” asked Mei. She sipped her tea.

You shrugged and took a deep drink of your latte. It was delicious. Warmth and cheer melted down your throat and spread through your body, followed by courage, and comfort. You glanced up at Lynne. She looked away with a smile. “He doesn’t know who Ana is.”

She smiled. “Good. The soup worked.”

You tilted your head and looked down at your bagel. Next to it were two cards – one for the _Night Owl Café_ , and one for Lynne – Faith Healer. You flipped them both over and saw phone numbers on the back. You opened your duffle, fished out your journal, and placed them just inside the front cover. Then, grabbing the glue, you ripped a piece of paper from your notebook and proceeded to make an envelope. You’d need it if you were going to keep collecting scraps and such like this.

“What does the soup do?” you asked as you folded the paper, gluing the sides down.

“You’ve read about it, have you not?” she asked.

“But it’s meant to make you forget everything,” you said. You glanced up as you carefully lifted some of the paper, pulled out your pocketknife, and made a slit for the top of the envelope. Taking it all, you opened your journal and glued it to the inside front cover. “Right?” you asked. You slipped the cards inside the envelope.

She nodded, then tilted her head. “People know what to ask for,” she said, “Especially now, when not too many people follow the old ways. One must adapt to survive, you see.” She smiled. “Mr. Wednesday forgets that, I believe. He thinks that one must fall back on ancient traditions in order to be who they once were.” She sipped her tea. “But if we were to always take steps backwards, we would never grow into who we are meant to be.” Her eyes met yours and something ancient sat there, something wise, something warm. “Change is good,” she murmured, “Sometimes it is better to release the past than to chase it.”

You nodded and vowed to tuck the advice away. You finished your chai latte, finished your bagel, double checked your bag and made sure everything was inside, including the journal, the glue, and the tin. You shook it a little as you dropped it into you bag. It didn’t make any sounds.

Then, you stood. “Thank you, Mei,” you said with a smile. You turned to Lynne. “Thank you.”

“We’ll see you,” said Lynne as she leaned against the pastry cabinet. She smiled and added, “At the Rock.”

You nodded, though you didn’t know what she meant. You reached into your duffle and pulled out your sweatshirt before you left the café. As you walked, you wiggled into the sweatshirt. It smelled like the lilac bush your mother had in front of your childhood home. You straightened the sleeves, plucked at their frayed and torn cuffs, rubbed at the bleach spots that dotted your right forearm. It was an old sweatshirt, your favorite actually: it was stretched out and threadbare in spots under your arms and shapeless but still your favorite.

You smiled. For a woman that dealt in forgotten memories, she had a way with making you nostalgic. You patted your duffle for your wallet, which sat next to the first-aid kit and the tin Mei had given you. There were three people in line before you at the ticket booth when you arrived at the station, and you took the chance to open the tin. Inside was tea - a single hand sewn bag of loose-leaf tea.

_“It’s also available in tea, if you travel. Soup doesn’t hold very well on the road for too long.”_

One bag. It was all you would need if you wanted an out.

“Next?” You looked up. The attendant in the booth watched you with an annoyed glare. You closed the tin and hurried up to the front, asking for a ticket to Eagle Point, Indiana. You paid, dropped your wallet into your duffle next to the tea, and zipped up your bag as the attendant printed off tickets. He gave you two, one to Omaha, and then one for Eagle Point. “It’ll be nine hours with the wait in Omaha,” he said.

You smiled. “Thank you.” You sat on the bench. It wasn’t too long of a wait for the bus. You hadn’t even cracked open your novel before it rolled up, already cleaned and ready for passengers. You sat in the customary seat – just towards the back, by the window, with your duffle in the seat next to you – and leaned back, ready to read. Two loud young men climbed onto the bus after a few minutes, arguing with each other to the point of throwing hands.

You glanced up. One was younger than the other, with red hair that was braided over one shoulder and a beanie shoved over his head. He was gritting his teeth, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. The man behind him was taller, with dark brown, almost black, hair that was a carefully curated mess around his face and ears. He was smiling and rolling up the sleeves of his white button up that he wore under a patterned suit vest. They sat behind you and continued their argument in a language you couldn’t pinpoint at first.

You returned to your book. The bus started to move. Someone tapped your shoulder.

“Excuse me,” cooed a man. You marked your spot and glanced back at him. It was the one with dark brown hair. He was leaning over your seat, resting his head on his arms and smiling. “Could you settle an argument for us, please?” he sang.

You turned around and wedged your book behind your bag. “I can try,” you said with a smile. You sat up on your knee. The man that leaned on your seat gave you a dazzling smile, one that made your heart skip. You introduced yourself. You felt you had to.

“Riichi,” he replied. He dropped his ear against his shoulder. “You are so lovely!” he exclaimed, “Have you ever considered running away with a wayward vagabond?”

The man besides him, the red head, grabbed the back of Riichi’s shirt and tugged him back into his seat. “Shut up, stop asking people that!” he growled.

“But I wanna know!” said Riichi.

You sat up more, fully kneeling on the seat now to watch them. “What argument did you need help with?” you asked.

The red head looked up at you. Riichi smacked his back, pitching him forward, almost knocking him off the seat entirely. “This is Tatsu,” he introduced with a grin. “We’re arguing about taking a trip later this year. There’s a big meeting, you see, and we don’t know if we should go or not.”

“It’s none of our business,” snapped Tatsu.

“Well, I think it’d be interesting to go! See who shows up, what’s talked about,” Riichi adjusted in his seat until he was leaning back against the wall, glancing between you and Tatsu. “See? This is what we’re arguing about!” He wiggled his fingers. “So, what do you think?”

You leaned your chin on your arms. “Is it somewhere interesting?” you asked.

Tatsu snorted and slouched in his seat. You saw tiny silver studs in each of his ears. “No,” he answered, “Some roadside attraction.”

“It’ll be fun,” sang Riichi, “We’ll get to meet new people, make new connections—”

“This isn’t home, you can’t just worm your way into people’s lives!”

“I could, if you weren’t such a downer.”

You smiled as they continued to argue. Despite their tones and insults, you could tell they were relaxed, like it was something they did often. They were friends. You flapped your hand. “I think you should do it.”

Riichi perked up. Tatsu groaned.

“I mean, only if neither of you have been before.” You shrugged and waved your hand towards Riichi, repeating his name to make sure you were saying it right. He beamed and nodded. “He has a point.”

“I fucking hate that he has a point,” countered Tatsu with a growl.

You shrugged. “It’s just an opinion, of course,” you said, “You did ask for it.”

“We did,” gasped Riichi.

“You did,” corrected Tatsu.

“We should listen to you,” continued Riichi.

“You should listen,” argued Tatsu.

Riichi slapped his palm over Tatsu’s face. You laughed. Maybe they were brothers, not friends. Or both. Brothers and friends. You knew your sister wanted to smack you from time to time. You sank back into your seat as they continued to argue, opening your book and falling into the ambiance they provided. You finished it by the time the bus pulled into Omaha, and the two apparently moved onto another argument. You pulled out your wallet as you climbed off the bus, adjusting your bag on your shoulder and the book under your arm. There was an actual station this time, and inside was a small postal outpost, which you wandered to. The postal worker sold you a padded envelope and a few stamps, and let you mail the book (and the wheel – you had almost forgotten!) to the Wetland Library. When she asked your name, she said she had a letter for you, and traded you the book for the letter.

You sat down to wait for your bus and read it.

Riichi collapsed into the seat beside you.

You tucked the letter away with your wallet into your bag and smiled. “Yes?”

“You’ll be there, won’t you?” It wasn’t a question. You turned to him, draping your arms over the bag in your lap. He had dropped his head back over the back of the seat and stared at the ceiling with a blissful smile. “At the meeting.” He rolled his head to you. “At the Rock.”

You sat up a little straighter. The Rock is what Lynne mentioned. Had he been in the café when she said that to you? No, you would have noticed him, especially if he’d been with Tatsu. How did he know, then?

You fell back against your seat.

“Oh.” He smiled. “So, who are you?” you asked.

His lips puckered in an exaggerated pout. “It’s no fun if I tell you,” he muttered, “You have to guess.”

“Hey!” Tatsu shouted from across the station. Both you and Riichi turned towards him. Tatsu stood by a door, holding it open with his shoulder. Outside was a line of people. “Let’s go!”

Riichi took your hand and pressed a receipt into it, leaning over to press an obnoxiously loud kiss to your cheek. “See you there,” he called as he hopped over the plastic chairs and jogged to Tatsu.

You unfolded the paper. There were two different numbers, with two different names in English and Japanese ascribed to each number. You vaguely recognized them.

The bus was late by two hours. In that time, you wrote down the information Riichi had given you, bought lunch from a small stand in the station, bought a book, washed your face. You paced the length of the seats reading until your bus finally showed up, then hurried to get in and sit down. You checked the time and frowned.

You’d left Nebraska at about eight. If everything had gone according to plan, you would have been at Eagle Point right before Sweeney had asked you to meet him. Now, you were going to arrive right when you were supposed to meet him. You didn’t even know where the Motel America was.

You were going to be late.

You thumped your head back and sighed.

The bus pulled away from the terminal. It got a flat an hour later, which took roughly an hour to fix. You stared at your phone the entire time, tapping your foot nervously, watching the minutes tick by to six, then to seven. You saw the sign that said ‘Now Entering Eagle Point’ when the time ticked past seven-thirty. You hurried off when it was safe to and immediately hailed one of the taxis sitting outside.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

You glanced at the time and sighed, slouching back. “Crocodile Jack’s?” you asked.

He snorted. “Jack’s Crocodile Bar,” he said. He pulled away from the terminal. “About twenty minutes away. That okay?” he asked.

You felt your heart drop all the way down to your shoes. “Yeah,” you whispered. You shoved your phone into your pocket and sighed. “That’s fine.”

Sweeney would understand. Powers that be and all.

The cab pulled up in front of Jack’s in fifteen minutes. You tipped him a hundred. He smiled, squeezed your hand, and left you at the door. You picked at your sleeve as you adjusted your bag over your shoulder and pushed the doors open.

Sweeney stumbled back against the bar with a full-bodied cackle, his face full of blood and rage and barely concealed disdain. A man you had never seen before grabbed a hand full of his shirt and smashed his fist into Sweeney’s cheek. The Irishman shoved him off, full on tossed the other man into a table that lined the wall.

And right on the sidelines was Mr. Wednesday. He didn’t move a muscle. In fact, his shoulders shook with silent laughter.

You dropped your bag next to Mr. Wednesday’s feet and watched Sweeney lose his footing on a bottle. He went down like a tree and didn’t move when he hit the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered. You hurried around the table.

“Ah,” Mr. Wednesday called after you, “You’re late!”

“Bus trouble!” you replied. You glanced back, hand resting on Sweeney’s shoulder, to see Mr. Wednesday scoop up a sliver of familiar sunshine. The other man stumbled past you, drunk and more than beat to shit. You squeezed Sweeney’s shoulders and rolled him onto his side. He groaned. At least he was alive. The bar patrons moved around you, moved tables and chairs back to where they had once been. The woman behind the bar shook her head. When you looked back at the table, Mr. Wednesday and the man were gone. You grabbed your duffle. Sweeney sat up slowly, groaning, scrubbing his face and smearing blood over his busted cheeks.

You hooked your hands under his shoulders and hauled him up. “Okay,” you groaned, “C’mon.” You kicked the bottle he had tripped on. “Let’s go.”

“Gotta teach a trick,” he slurred as he leaned on you. You grunted, grabbed the top of his pants, and shuffled across the room. The bartender held out Sweeney’s coat and shirt, which you took and threw over your shoulder. “Gotta fight.”

“You lost the fight,” you said as you kicked open the men’s bathroom door. It was empty.

“Gotta do it,” he mumbled.

You dropped your duffle, tossed the clothes on top, and carefully sat Sweeney back on one of the toilets. His head lolled to the side. You held your hands in front of his chest, hoping that he’d stay up, desperately praying that he wouldn’t slump forward and fall face first against the sticky floor. When he leaned backwards instead, you bolted for the bag and yanked out the first-aid kit. You set it in Sweeney’s lap and pulled out an alcohol pad.

“Is this what you had to do?” you whispered, wiping the right side of his face.

He cracked open an eye. “You’re late,” he groaned. He shifted, his hand slapping over the kit to keep it in his lap.

You folded the wipe and continued to clean off the blood. “Bus trouble,” you replied. You gripped his chin with gentle fingers and tilted his head, moving onto the left side. “The bus was late. And then we got a flat.”

“Rough luck,” he mumbled.

You smiled. “Didn’t have a leprechaun with me to give me luck,” you said. With the blood gone, you could see that his cheeks were busted, his lip bruised, his eyebrow split. You frowned and tossed the wipe, grabbing another one to clean the wounds better. “Why the fight?” you asked.

“Had to,” he sighed. His hands slid from his lap to your sides, wandered lower, squeezed and groped and dug his fingers into the fat of your thighs and ass. “Told to,” he added absently.

You tugged at the hairs on his chin until he let go. “You’re drunk,” you pointed out.

“Not that drunk,” he replied. He snapped the kit closed. Leaning forward, he pressed his face into your shoulder, in the fabric of your sweatshirt, and took in a slow breath. “Few beers,” he mumbled, “Southern Comfort.” He took in another deep breath. “Smell like the woods after a late summer rain,” he rasped. The kit fell as he stood. He twisted your sweatshirt up in his hands and picked you up, pressed you flat against the stall door, settling between your legs. You gripped the top of the door. He slung an arm under your ass, held you up as you slid your legs up to his hips. “Fuck,” he groaned.

“Sweeney.” Your voice was steady, which surprised you as your heart was hammering and your body was hot, and you wanted nothing more than for him to rip off your shorts and fuck you senseless. The thought startled you. You hadn’t expected that.

His nose dragged over your collar. “You smell like home,” he whispered.

(He smelled petrichor and moss, wood and natural rot, but he also smelled shampoo and laundry detergent and artificial deodorizer, sweat and blood and belief. He smelled Ireland and he smelled you.)

You pressed your hips back against the door until you could hook your feet around the front of his legs. You shifted your hips, flattened your spine, and followed his legs until your knees pressed into his hips. Then, you pushed. He grunted, stumbled, released you. You dropped to the floor and he fell back against the toilet.

“You’re drunk,” you repeated.

He grinned and peaked an eyebrow. “Never stopped anythin’ before.”

You picked up the kit and opened the door. “Nothing ever happened before.” You shoved it into your duffle, then threw his shirts at him. “Get dressed. We’re going back to the motel.”

He pulled on his shirts. You picked up your bag. The walk back to the Motel America was quiet, save for Sweeney asking for the cigarette you stole from him. He lit it, smoked it, threw it away in the parking lot. You followed him to his room, pulled off your shoes, and set your bag down on the table. Before you could say anything else to him, he had collapsed onto the bed, still clothed, and was out like a light.

You sighed. “Nice to see you, too,” you muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have FINALLY all COLLIDED WITH CANON!!! I've very happy. A little concerned that it took us this long to get here, but happy. What did you guys think?? How did you enjoy that present from Mei?? :3 Let me know how you guys enjoyed this chapter!


	11. ...and the Truth of the Matter

Eagle Point was pretty at night. You sat outside in the parking lot, watching the sun rise over the trees and the buildings and the houses. The stars blinked out and the sky turned an array of colors you had only seen in pictures.

You hadn’t slept. Your thoughts had kept racing, and they raced nowhere good.

You took your medication and drained the bottle of water you had bought from the vending machine.

Sweeney wandered out of the room, hair a little damp, when the night sky had faded to early morning. He patted your shoulder.

“C’mon,” he murmured. You looked up. He had your duffle over his shoulder. “We gotta get going.”

“Where?” you asked.

“Wisconsin.” He held his hand out to you. “Bottle.” You handed over the pill bottle, which he stashed in the duffle. He held out his hand again. You took it. He hauled you up.

“What’s in Wisconsin?” you asked. It took him a minute to let your hand go. You rubbed your fingers over your palm until the warmth of his hand faded. He motioned towards the road and started to walk. You followed him while tugging down your shorts and fixing your sweatshirt.

“The Rock,” he answered. You looked up, waiting for him to go on. “Fuck ton o’ gods,” he added. He sniffed. You noticed he walked with a limp and wondered just how hurt he was from that fight. “It’s what you’ve been doin’ for Wednesday,” he continued. You two cleared the empty parking lot and started down the road.

“Favors? Favors is what I’ve been doing? For what, for the rock?” you asked.

“Rock,” he said, “With a big r.” You stared at him, waiting for clarification. “The House on the Rock,” he said slowly, adjusting the duffle on his back. “Do you have brick in here?” he grunted.

“Books,” you said, staring. He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tilted up. “That’s up in Wisconsin, you said?” you asked. He nodded, confirmed it, kept walking. You stared. “Are we walking all the up there?” you asked.

“Until we can hitch a ride, sweetheart.” He fully smiled and winked. You rolled your eyes.

You walked.

He asked you about where you had gone, who you met, what all you had to do. You asked him why he’d had to fight the guy in the bar.

“Our man said so,” he answered. You pushed your sleeves up and took the duffle. “ _Grimnir_.”

“Why are you working for him?” you asked. You slung it across your back. “You never told me.”

He didn’t answer for a long time. “’m the errand boy,” he grumbled.

You frowned. “Yeah, you told me that part,” you softly commented.

“Do whatever he wants, whenever wants, wherever he wants,” he continued. He was shuffling, scratching his chin. “He wanted me to fuck up this one, see what he could do.” You held the strap of your duffle. “Bastard set everything up to get this man in his pocket and he succeeded.”

You opened your mouth to ask something – what he meant, if he had forgotten he had told you, to see if he would tell you the why and not the what – when a car rolled up beside you both, matching your pace as you walked. A man rolled down the passenger side’s window. The man inside leaned over. He looked like one of those preacher types – the clean-shaved, turned-over-a-new-leaf ones. “Do you two need a ride?” he asked.

Sweeney squinted at the man but kept walked. You leaned around him and smiled. “You a rapist?” snapped Sweeney. You tripped over your own feet, trying not to laugh at the audacity of the question.

“No, not at all,” answered the man in the car.

Sweeney stared at ahead, looking down only when you leaned around him again. “A murderer?” asked Sweeney. He grabbed your sweatshirt and tugged you back next to him.

“Not recently,” said the man with an amused smile. You looked up at Sweeney while the two of you still walked. He didn’t meet your eyes. “I’ve been on your side of the highway, you know,” said the man. “Where are you heading?”

“Wisconsin,” you answered. Sweeney swore under his breath.

The man smiled. “I can take you as far as Madison.” He leaned over and opened the door.

Sweeney scowled. You smiled. “Can you open the trunk?” you asked. The man popped it and let you throw the duffle in the back. You climbed into the back seat and yawned.

Sweeney glanced back as he sat in the front. “Get some sleep,” he murmured. You shifted around in the seat and rested your head against the seatbelt, closing your eyes. Sweeney tilted his chair back until you were a hair from being uncomfortable.

The man smiled and started to drive. You were out, seconds away from falling deep into sleep when the sound of something breaking made you jump. You opened your eyes, lifted your head, and saw a bloody pipe sticking out of the back of the driver seat. Sweeney adjusted the seat up with a groan. The car swerved, then skidded against the median, and came to a stop.

You took in a shaky breath and released a squeaky, “What the fuck?”

Sweeney reached over to open the trunk, then climbed out. You scrambled after him. Your breath rattled in your chest. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer, and cars stopped around you on the road. You wondered who called the cops. Sweeney grabbed your arm and gently led you away from the car – or, at least, pulled you somewhere you couldn’t see the dead body. You stared anywhere and nowhere, mind reeling. What had just happened? Sweeney looped an arm over your shoulders and held you against his side. You reached up and grabbed his hand with both of yours.

The cops took Sweeney’s statement when they arrived and accepted your nodding as statement enough. They went to examine the car while the coroner draped a sheet over the body. Sweeney lit a cigarette.

“That’s some bad luck,” said one cop to another.

Sweeney froze. He wiggled his fingers free from your grasp with a gentle, dumbstruck, “No.” He emptied one pocket – nothing but coins, gold coins, gold coins that didn’t shine in the sun. He emptied the other with the same result. You stared numbly at them as they fell to the ground.

“Mr. Wednesday took the other coin,” you whispered. You gripped the strap of your bag.

“When?” rasped Sweeney as he patted himself down. Maybe you were mistaken!

“Last night,” you answered. You looked up. He glared out at nothing, lips moving as he calculated. Then, he swore, and grabbed your arm and pulled you along with him. You stumbled. “Where are we going?” you asked as you righted yourself.

“Chicago,” he growled. He swore again, once in English, once in another language. “That was the wrong coin!”

“Wait,” you said, pulling your arm from his grasp. Sweeney kept walking, eyes straight ahead, like a man on a mission. “Sweeney!”

“What?” he snapped, whirling around.

You heaved a sigh as you watched him grind down on his cigarette. “I am not walking all the way to Chicago,” you said, exhausted.

He spat the cigarette at the ground and stalked back to you, waving over your shoulder as he replied, “We get a car? That happens. Again.” He stared down at you. “Do you want that to happen again?” You clenched your jaw. “Then we walk.”

You groaned.

You followed Sweeney in silence. The two of you had already walked a good distance, and the man in the car had taken you a little further. You convinced him to stop late in the afternoon, when the two of you passed a small but packed diner in a little town. You two ate in silence, and you left the waitress a large tip when you left. Then, you dragged Sweeney to a dark corner of the parking lot and told him to guide you through stealing a car.

He hesitantly climbed into the passenger’s seat once you jammed the screwdriver into the key slot.

“I’m a good driver,” you told him as you backed out. You added, “And I’ve seen enough Final Destination to know how to avoid stupid accidents.” You told him to grab your atlas from your bag and give you directions to the nearest county road. From there, he traced out your path until nightfall.

You pulled over when it got too hard to keep your eyes open.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Sweeney softly asked you.

You scrubbed your palms against your eyes. “Actually slept?” you groaned. You leaned your head back and sighed. “Nebraska.”

“Fuck’s sake,” he grunted. He waved at the back seat. “Sleep.”

“What?”

He opened his door, then the back door, and tossed your bag up front. You pulled the screwdriver from the key slot and set it in the cup holder before you rounded the car to the still open door. Sweeney sprawled out across the back seat, propping himself up against the opposite door. He wedged his arm between the door and the driver’s seat to flick the lock button. “C’mon,” he sighed as he pulled his arm back. He patted his chest.

“You can’t be serious,” you mumbled as you kneeled on the seat. They were large bucket seats, the kind older cars used to have. With Sweeney sitting the way he was, there was enough room for either him to sleep with both legs on the seat, or for him and someone a little smaller to sleep together with him sprawled out. He patted his chest again, a suggestive smile crawling across his face. You sat by his foot and closed the door.

“There we go.” He gently grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him, turning you around so you could recline into him. He folded his arms over yours and held you like you were a fragile thing. You rested your head back against his shoulder. The windows you had cracked open during the drive cooled the car and sent a chill through to your toes. You shifted your legs to align them with Sweeney’s warmer ones. “Better?” he whispered.

“Much,” you said. You leaned your forehead against his neck. Sweeney smoothed his thumb against the back of your hand. “No bad luck so far,” you breathed.

“Don’t jinx it,” he grumbled.

You felt his voice through your skin and smiled. “It’s all about how you believe in it,” you yawned. He pinched the back of your hand. “Ow.” His fingers stretched over the back of yours, enveloped them but didn’t hold them. You closed your eyes and thought about turning your hand over. You didn’t, though. “Your coin may be lucky, yeah, but maybe you believe it’s lucky and that made it lucky,” you murmured.

“Not how that works,” he whispered against your hair. You smiled. “It’s a king’s coin.”

“It can be a king’s coin and not be lucky,” you replied.

“It’s magic because it’s a king’s coin,” he said, “Lucky because it’s a king’s coin.”

“King’s coin, king’s coin, king’s coin,” you mumbled. He snorted. “How do you say that in Irish?”

“Gaeilge,” he corrected, then he told you, though you didn’t remember. “Are you always like this when you’re tired?” he asked, “Never noticed.”

“When I’m exhausted,” you answered with a faint giggle. He squeezed your hands.

You dreamed of a little disk of sunshine and a king in the woods.

You awoke in the late morning with an ache in your back, your leg asleep, and Sweeney snoring in your ear. You shifted, slid from his arms, and climbed into the front seat as graceful as you could with a leg that refused to move. With a groan, you opened your atlas, turned on the car, and started to drive, all the while wiggling your foot with the hope that feeling would return sooner rather than later. Sweeney slept for another hour, waking up when you pulled over somewhere in Chicago.

You were a cautious driver, yes, but you knew that city drivers were a nightmare on the best of days.

“Where are we going?” you asked when you heard him groan. You tugged the sleeves of your sweatshirt down and wiped the wheel off, the screwdriver, the door handle – anything that was smooth you vigorously rubbed until you thought your fingerprints were gone. You unlocked the doors with a covered finger and stepped out.

Sweeney swore when he climbed out of the car, yanking open the door to grab your bag and the map. He looked around while scratching his head and gave a noncommittal wave. You started to walk. It stung your feet, and made your legs hurt, and your stomach growled when you past the first gas station you saw. You took the atlas from him, shoved it into your bag, and pulled out your wallet.

“Are you hungry?” you asked, “Because I’m starving.”

He nodded. “Coffee,” he grunted.

You rolled your eyes and walked inside. The cashier hardly looked up when you entered. They didn’t even watch as you pulled snack after snack off the shelf – chips, crackers, cookies, candy – then took two of the largest bottles of water and a soda from the fridges. You made your way to the coffee machine with an arm full of treats. The man by the machine stepped aside, ducked his head, and tugged his baseball cap down over his face. You kept your attention on him as you filled a coffee cup. The man stirred a stick in a cup that you noticed was empty. You juggled your haul up to the cashier as quickly and as carefully as possible, paid, and hurried back out to Sweeney with two bags.

He was shaking your pill bottle when you approached with his coffee. “Finally,” he groaned.

You opened a bottle of water and took your pills, looking back at the station with a frown. “I think someone—” You turned back to see him upending a flask into the coffee. “Seriously?”

He shrugged, continued to pour until it was empty, then drank it. He happily sighed.

“I think someone’s following me,” you repeated. He frowned. You shoved the water and the soda into your duffle with your wallet, pills, and most of the snacks, then took the bag, and opened the chips. “Can we go?” you asked.

Sweeney started to walk. “What do you meant someone’s followin’ you?” he asked.

You swallowed your food. “There was a guy back there, I uh,” you looked over your shoulder, “I’ve seen him before. A few times.”

“Same guy?” he said more than asked.

You nodded. “I think?” You shook your head and pulled out another handful of chips. “Never seen his face,” you muttered.

Sweeney looked back. “Yer phone off?” he asked. You wiped your hand on your shorts and pulled it from your pocket. It was on and almost dead. You turned it off. “Keep it off,” he demanded, “If you need ta have it, keep it off when yer not usin’ it.” You nodded and finished the chips just in time to follow him into the parking lot of a diner.

“Seriously?” you sighed. “I could’ve just gotten something here?”

“We won’t be here long,” he growled. You followed him, shifting the bag across your back. The diner was practically empty, save for Wednesday and the man you recognized from the bar. You barely heard Mr. Wednesday’s snide comments to Sweeney, though heard the man – Shadow, Sweeney called him – correct Wednesday’s turn of phrase. You tilted your head as you threw away your bag of chips and made your way to the diner counter. You’d heard the name Shadow before, somewhere, you knew you had, but where? Your sister came to mind. You wondered why.

A familiar face walked up to the diner counter and you smiled. “Mama-ji,” you greeted.

She returned your smile. “Messenger,” she said with a nod. Her eyes darted down you. “Have you eaten?”

“Chips,” you answered with a shrug.

She clicked her tongue and snapped her fingers, pointing at the chair. You sat. She placed a plate of hashbrowns and eggs and bacon in front of you without prompting. “Eat,” she commanded. You started to protest. “Quickly,” she added.

You scarfed down the meal without another thought. Behind you, Sweeney growled and threatened, spat, and swore. Mama-Ji took the plate and emptied it out into a small to-go box, handed you a plastic fork, and nodded at the door. You stood. “Hey, if I wanted to get you something, what would I get?” you asked as you shoved a piece of bacon into your mouth.

She smiled. “You’ll know when you see it,” she answered.

Sweeney yanked the door open and stormed out.

“I’d keep an eye on your man there,” Mr. Wednesday said as you turned to the door. You rolled your eyes and turned to him, eating a bite of eggs. “Make sure he doesn’t step out of bounds.”

You sighed. “That an order, sir?” you asked, a little more sarcastically than you intended. He arched an eyebrow. Shadow turned around with an amused smile. He was cute. More than cute. “Sorry,” you whispered. You shouldered open the door and hurried out after Sweeney.

He was halfway down the street when you caught up to him. “Where are we going?” you asked as you offered him the rest of the food.

He glanced over. His shoulders slowly relaxed. He took the carton when you offered it again. “Eagle Point,” he answered.

“Wait, we’re going back?” you asked.

He nodded and shoveled food into his mouth. “Moon Shadow back there left the coin on his fuckin’ wife’s grave,” he answered.

You tilted your head. “I know that name from somewhere,” you mumbled.

“Where’d we leave the car?” Sweeney asked. He dumped the empty carton in a trash can. You led him to the car, where he climbed into the driver’s seat. You sat back in the passenger’s seat. He hesitated in turning the car on.

You smiled, tongue licking your bottom lip in a way he found very familiar. “I believe that I’ll be fine if you’re driving,” you slowly said, looking over. He pressed his lips together, nostrils flaring as he snorted. “I believe you’ll keep me safe,” you whispered.

(Warmth pooled in his chest and he found your words to be true.)

He started the car. As he drove, you asked him to tell you a story. “What’s with you and stories?” he asked with a smile.

“I like them,” you said. You drew your feet up onto the dashboard and stared at the designs. “Like these shoes – they have a story, many stories, and you can kinda read them all if you look hard enough.”

He glanced over. “Where did ya get those?” he asked.

You smiled. “A friend.” He hummed. “So?”

“So, what?”

“Last story you told me was about a girl whose boobies you liked,” you said.

He was grinning when you looked over. “Good story,” he said. You snorted. He leaned his head back against the head rest and looked at the road. “Married once,” he murmured. You stared at his profile. The cuts were already healing, the bruises green and distant under the sweat and dirt that covered his face. His eyes were soft with nostalgia. “Don’t ‘member her name,” he whispered. He cocked his head. “’member her dress, pretty yellow thing with red stars,” he frowned, “Or were they flowers?”

“Was this when you were a king?” you softly asked.

“Oh, yes,” he emphatically replied. “There was a feast. A party. Bonfire. We danced.”

“You danced?” you asked with a smile.

“Fightin’ and dancin’ aren’t that different,” he said as he glanced over. He smirked. “You should know. We’ve danced often, you and I.”

You felt your face burn and you laughed. “I still have a lot to learn,” you said. He glanced at the clock and pulled over. “What are you doing?” you asked.

He nodded his head at the clock. “We got maybe…” he sniffed, “Hour? Maybe less? Until we get to Eagle Point.” He turned the car off and climbed out. “About four hours until sundown, another two until it’s safe to go grave robbin’.”

“Woah, wait.” You followed him. He shrugged off his coat, then his button up, and rolled his shoulders. It was a sight you could never grow tired of. You fumbled to pull off your sweatshirt. “Wait, so we’re going graverobbing?” you asked.

Sweeney glanced at the car, then the shoulder, and stepped back into the grass, curling his fingers for you to follow. “You heard Moon Shadow—”

“Shadow Moon,” you corrected.

“Damn dark eyed bastard,” he spat, though he was smiling a little. “Threw my coin on his cunt wife’s grave.” He lifted his hands.

You did the same, adjusted your stance when you felt the pebbles of the road shift beneath your shoes. “Not everyone’s a cunt,” you pointed out.

He threw a jab. You shuffled back. He followed, jabbed again. You smacked his forearm with your leading hand and swung your elbow towards his chin. His back hand pushed your elbow up and over, following the arc of your movement, and spun you around so your back smacked against his chest. “She was a cunt,” he whispered in your ear. He squeezed his arms around you and asked, “What do you do here?”

You grabbed his forearms. “How dirty are we fighting?” you grunted as you struggled. He was really squeezing!

“Real fight kinda dirty,” he replied. You didn’t have to see his face to know he was grinning.

You snapped your head back against his chin, then dropped your weight. The tactic would have worked on someone that wasn’t seven feet tall and made of coils of muscle. Sweeney, though, he lifted your dead weight up like a sack of potatoes and shifted his stance. You grunted, kicked your feet up, then let them fall, the flat of your shoes smacking against his thighs. You pushed against him. He released you, let you crumble forward to the ground while he stumbled back.

You scrambled to your feet and turned around. “Why was she a cunt?” you asked.

“Not too many reasons a pretty wife gets in a car with another man,” he replied. The split on his lip had opened again and the blood painted his teeth pink. He waved his fingers at you, taunting you. You took in a slow breath and watched his hands.

“How do you know that?” you asked. You stepped in, throwing a cross, aiming for his chest. He swung his arm down to block your punch. You lifted your foot and kicked the inside of his leading knee. Sweeney swore, his back knee dropping to the ground. You stopped short of elbowing him across the face.

“Read the paper,” he replied. He wrapped a hand around your bicep, his other arm around your torso, and lunged forward, pinning you beneath him. You squirmed until you released a frustrated squeal, then flopped back against the ground. Sweeney braced himself above you with a grin. “Again?”

“Are you gonna keep beating me up because you’re bigger than me?” you asked.

He snorted and climbed to his feet, holding out his hand to help you up. “Where’d you learn that knee thing?” he asked once you were up.

You dusted the rocks from the backs of your thighs. “School,” you replied, “Took a class as a stress reliever. Didn’t really work, but I’m starting to remember some of the stuff.”

He smirked, tongue licking the blood from his bottom lip. You smiled. He shifted his feet. “Again, c’mon.”

You two fought on the side of the road until the dirt stuck to your sweat. You were exhausted when you climbed back into the car – all of the walking, all the sun, all the physical exertion was catching up with you. You pulled on your sweatshirt in an attempt to absorb the smell that had to be rolling off you at that point. He started to drive, flipping the visor down to block the setting sun.

“Cunt better be dead,” grunted Sweeney.

You looked over. “You know, if you keep calling her a cunt, it’s gonna bite you in the ass.”

He lolled his head against his shoulder, glancing at you. “She’s a dead cunt, so who cares?”

You shrugged and muttered, “Just saying.”

You arrived in Eagle Point in an hour, just like Sweeney said. The sun had set by then, and he drove until he was a block away from the cemetery, then turned off the car. He leaned back in his seat. “So,” he said.

You shoved your seat back and crossed your legs beneath you. “So,” you replied.

“Tell me more about you,” he said, looking over. He stretched over awkwardly and pulled his water bottle from the duffle, along with a bag of crackers.

You snorted and took the water bottle he handed you. “What? No?”

“Coward,” he scoffed.

You rolled your eyes. “There’s nothing to tell!”

“Oh, there’s somethin’ to tell,” he challenged, “Or you wouldn’t be defensive.”

“I have done nothing with my twenty-something years of life,” you flatly proclaimed, “You tell me something.”

“I’ve told ya plenty!”

“You have centuries on me and you’ve told me two stories,” you held up two fingers, “Two, which both had to deal with boobies.”

This time, Sweeney’s scoff was indignant and muffled by a mouthful of crackers. “One dealt with boobies!” he shouted, turning fully to you. You leaned your back against the door. “One, the other started because you asked if it was about boobies.”

“How many times are you gonna say boobies?” you asked.

He arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

“It’s annoying,” you said. You sat up. “Specifically, how you’re saying it, it’s annoying. It’s your accent, it’s just—stop saying it.”

He leaned over, stretched his hand out, and tweeked your nose. “Boobies.”

You slapped the bag of crackers out of his hand. He slapped your hands back, shouting through a mouthful of the cheesy crackers, which had you slapping his hands again, until you were both slapping each other silly. His hand slipped between yours and smacked lightly against your cheek. You gasped, stopping short. He was laughing in short, breathless guffaws that shook not only him but the car, too. He’d been laughing for the last few moments of slap fighting. You leaned over and slapped him back.

He wheezed, still cackling, “’ey!”

“You started it!” you shouted, struggling to keep your own grin down. He lunged across the seat. You scrambled backwards, opening the door and tumbling ass over tea kettle out of the car, grunting and covering your mouth to smother your startled laughter. Sweeney swore and stumbled out of the car after you, kneeling in front of you when you finally landed ass up in the grass. He sat back on his haunches as you pushed yourself up. Your eyes fluttered. “Is the world spinning?”

Sweeney smiled a crooked little grin. You could hardly see him in the dark. “No,” he answered. He brushed a finger over your forehead and down your cheek, flicking hair from your eyes. “Took one hell of a fall,” he said. He held his hand out in front of you.

You took it. “Let’s go dig up a dead body,” you groaned as he helped you to your feet.

You two cleaned the car from bumper to bumper, and you slung the duffle over your shoulder when you were done. Once you two were over the low cemetery wall, Sweeney slung his arm over your shoulder with the groan of a man four times his age. He scrubbed his hand over his hair as you two walked.

You looked up at him. “What’s on your mind?” you softly asked.

He scrunched up his mouth, tilting his head up towards the sky. He didn’t answer for a long time, at least until you two had reached the still fresh grave. There was a little plastic marker, nothing special, and you wondered if she would ever get one. “Bad feelin’,” he finally said. He looked around as he let his arm fall off your shoulder.

You dropped your bag next to the grave and sat next to it. “What kind?” you asked. You pulled the last of your snacks out of your back and sat back to eat.

Sweeney wandered away for a moment, only to return with a shovel. He arched an eyebrow with you as he stabbed it into the dirt. “You gonna help?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Your coin,” you said, biting one of the cookies in half, “I’m just here to keep you company.” He snorted at that but didn’t disagree. Instead, he started to dig. A quarter of the way down, he took off his jacket, then his shirt. You tilted your head as he rolled his shoulders back and the suspenders just seemed to slide right off them. You pressed your lips together and tilted your head. “What kind of bad feeling?” you absently asked.

He glanced up, not missing how your eyes traced the contours of his muscles. He smirked. He arched eyebrow when you met his gaze, then continued to dig. “A bad one,” he answered.

“Smartass,” you grumbled.

He tossed the shovel out of the hole and dropped to his knees around the same time that you finished your cookies. You leaned over the edge of the grave. He scrambled to brush the dirt off the lid and froze. “Fuck,” he hissed. He grunted and tugged on the lid, yanking it free from the dirt around it, then stood. There was a hole in the center of the casket lid. He turned towards you and stared at you through it. You looked down at the casket at the same time. “Fuck!!” he shouted. He threw the casket lid down.

You pressed your lips together. “Isn’t there supposed to be a body in there?” you nervously asked.

“Fuck!!!” he screamed.

You sat back and looked up at him. “Now what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WEV'VE FOUND A BODY!!!! :D WHAT DO YOU THINK!? First, the stalker? Being in Mama-Ji's good graces? Finding Laura's grave empty?? And what about those nice soft sweet Sweeney moments?! Things are moving forward, but it's not always good~ I hope you enjoyed this chapter!!


	12. ...and Laura Fucking Moon

Mr. Ibis and Mr. Jacquel stared up at the small apartment complex. They had been called by the coroner, who had been called by the landlord, who had received multiple complaints of a terrible smell coming from the fourth floor. They found an old woman up there, deceased at least a week. It was troublesome in that she wasn’t dead by any natural means, yet the coroner stated she had been taken by a stroke. Mr. Jacquel knelt by the woman’s body. Her soul had long departed, taken by another god that she prayed to. He looked up at Mr. Ibis with a worried frown.

Bast meowed from the door. Mr. Ibis looked over, fixing his glasses as he stared at his companion. Behind her appeared a rather familiar face – familiar in the passage of time, familiar as the ages had swept around them all. Tis peered into the room with a scowl.

“There’s a problem downstairs,” was all she said before she vanished back down the hall. The men exchanged looks.

Bast trotted over to the body with a meow that stated that she will stand guard, and the two men left her in charge. They didn’t have to go far – just to the balcony. It overlooked the courtyard of the apartment complex. Three apartments over and on the ground floor; there were people loitering by the patio door. The collars of their long coats were flipped up around their ears, and in a group – such as they were – they looked more than suspicious. The three that Mr. Ibis and Mr. Jacquel could see turned to them and revealed faceless faces.

They frowned.

They knew the Children when they saw them.

And they knew whose apartment that used to be.

The Starbright Motel was a rundown thing. You wondered what kind of deals they had on rooms. The beds had to be more comfortable than the seats of a stolen car, and they offered more privacy, especially when it came to phone calls.

“I’ll talk to you later,” you said to your sister, who repeated it back to you. You told her you loved her, then hung up, and turned off your cell phone.

Sweeney was leaning back against the door with an amused grin, chewing on a Red Vine he had taken while you were on the phone, even though you had explicitly told him not to – as much as you could without full on yelling at him to not eat your candy. He arched an eyebrow when you turned to him. “You get all sappy when you talk to your sister, you know,” he pointed out, waving half of the Red Vine at you. You snatched it from his fingers. “Like she hung the fuckin’ moon.”

“I don’t remember the last time I actually saw her,” you stated while settling back into the seat. “You know, there’s a quote from a movie we used to watch together that I always think of when I think of her,” you said, chomping down the piece of the candy. You leaned your head back against the window. “Because she is my sister,” you quoted in the best British accent you could muster. It had Sweeney grinning, so you wondered how terrible it was. “And therefore, one half of me,” you finished. You smiled. “Shit movie, honestly, it’s…full of historical inaccuracies and nonsense but that quote really stuck with me.” You shrugged. “If I’m…” You leaned your head back and looked at the dim stars above the motel. “If I’m the stars and the moon, she’s the sun in the sky.”

Sweeney reached over and pulled another piece of licorice out of the pack. “You’re really close with her, aren’t ya?” he asked. He glanced out the window as he spoke, watching the rooms that faced the parking lot. Neither of you knew which room Shadow was in, which meant neither of you knew which room Laura would be in, if she was even there at all. You followed his gaze and trailed your eyes over the doors.

“Course I am,” you finally answered, “It’s just us.” You peeled the licorice apart. “Been just us for the last ten years,” you whispered.

You felt Sweeney’s eyes on your face, but he said nothing, at least not about what you said. He didn’t pry. Instead, he looked back out the windshield and propped his foot against the center console, folding himself into his seat. “Can I tell you a story?” he asked. When you looked up, he was twisting his ring around his pinky.

You shoved the string of licorice into your mouth. “Only if I can see your ring,” you said.

He pulled it off and held it out with a snort. You took it with a smile. It was much bigger than your fingers, and heavy, but the design on it looked familiar. You scrubbed it on your jeans to clean the dirt off. “I don’t remember much,” he said as he leaned back, shaking his hand, “It’s all scrambled up in there, you know?”

“I know,” you murmured.

He lifted his foot and gently kicked your knee. You grinned. “But I remember bits of my old man.” You looked up from your knee, your smile shrinking as you watched his face. His beard was a little longer, the stubble on his head coming in a little more, and the freckles on his face were a little darker. You’d believed that Sweeney had been a king before, yes, but in the faint light of the single parking lot lamp, in its washed-out golden glow, he looked positively regal.

Your heart skipped. He looked handsome.

His eyes dropped to the dashboard, then over to you, finding your silence to be expecting rather than admiring. “He was a bit of an asshole,” he rasped. He cleared his throat and grabbed the bottle of water from the backseat.

“Oh, so that’s where you get it from,” you said with a smile.

He snorted, shaking his head gently. Taking a drink of water, he leaned back. “I don’t remember much. Don’t remember his face, his name…” He frowned. “But I remember the water.” His frown smoothed out into a small smile, which made you smile. You looked out the windshield.

Shadow walked into a room. Sweeney sat up, almost knocking his elbow against the horn. He tossed the water bottle behind him, paused, then reached back to grab it again and drain it. You watched him the whole time, shaking your head. “So, what are we gonna do?” you asked as you twisted around in the seat to zip up your duffle. “I, for one, wouldn’t mind getting a room for the night.”

He shrugged. “Don’t see why not,” he grunted. “I’ll get my coin back, we’ll rest up, and then we’ll make our way to Wisconsin.”

You opened the door and grabbed your bag. “Sounds like a plan.” You leaned against the door frame of the back seat. “Are you just gonna stay here?” you asked.

He shrugged again and turned his head to look back at you. “Don’t wanna go bargin’ in there with Moon Shadow around.” You rolled your eyes and didn’t correct him. He waved a hand and turned around in the seat, grabbing another stick of licorice from the pack. “Get one on the ground floor,” he mumbled around the candy.

“Why?” you asked, shouldering your bag.

“Gonna spar with ya some more,” he said. He shrugged. “Never know when you’ll need it.”

You nodded slowly but rolled your eyes again. Shutting the door, you folded the half-eaten Red Vine packing and shoved it into your back pocket. As you walked, you looked down at your hands. You still held Sweeney’s ring between your fingers, and a dirt smudge covered your knee. You turned the thing over in your hand. It was a solid piece of silver, the same width all the way around, with curling designs carved into it. You slid it onto your middle finger. It was a little loose, but it fit. Smiling to yourself, you continued up the walkway to the office door and pulled it open.

You were a little disappointed when you didn’t see Mama-Ji – you’d bought her a small glass paperweight with a pink lotus in it (you’d found it in the clearance bin of a gas station) and had wanted to give it to her but found no one familiar in the office. Instead, you talked with the clerk, rented a room, and wandered back out, twirling the key to number 54 around your finger. You glanced into the window of 55 to see if you could see Shadow, but found the curtain drawn.

As you unlocked number 54, you heard the door on your other side open and the sounds of two men talking reached your ears. You just headed inside, making a note of the other room being occupied. A large hand suddenly slapped against the small of your back. You whipped around, hand clenched into a fist, and smashed your knuckles into his sternum.

At least Sweeney didn’t sprawl backwards. He did drop his head back, though, and snarled a mighty swear at the hit, stumbling back and pulling his hand away from you in the process. Your mouth dropped open, first in shock, and then with hesitant and nervous chuckles that built up into high pitched giggles. Sweeney’s hand slapped over your face and he shoved you back into the room with an annoyed, “Glad you found that funny.”

You tripped backwards and fell into the chair with a gasp. The bag fell next to you. Sweeney paused, hand on the door, holding it open. He watched you with narrowed, but worried, eyes as you looked up at him with a wide mouthed stare.

Then, you started laughing.

He rolled his eyes and shut the door. “You’re gettin’ better,” he pointed out with a grunt. He rubbed the spot on his chest. “Winded me a bit.”

“Maybe you’re becoming more human,” you said once you were done laughing.

He gaped at you a bit. “That’s not funny,” he said. You snorted, teetering on the edge of falling into another fit of laughter.

“It’s a little funny,” you wheezed. You tilted your head back, staring at the ceiling with a soft sigh. “Sweeney?”

“Hm.” The curtain swayed, the metal clamps sliding over the curtain rod with a ring. You glanced up to see him peering out the window. He blindly grabbed the chair by the little table and pulled it towards him. When you didn’t reply, his eyes dragged over to you. It was easier to see the gold in his eyes in the yellow hotel light. You leaned your ear against your shoulder and found yourself smiling. “What?” he breathed with a smile playing on his lips. He sank his hulking frame into the chair.

“What did you do?” you softly asked. You shrugged and straightened up, carding your fingers through your hair to scratch your scalp. “Before all of this.” He arched an eyebrow for you to clarify and reached into his coat to pull out a cigarette. “Before Wednesday.”

The lighter flicked open, and he paused in lighting the cigarette, as though he had to think about his answer. When he did light the thing, he was scowling. He tossed the lighter on the table and it slid towards the edge. “Traveled,” he answered, though he wasn’t happy about it. “Met a girl.”

“Oh, did you see her boobies, too?” you asked.

He snorted and his frown was replaced with a bemused smile. “No,” he answered. He exhaled slowly, and the smoke formed a perfect ring. You stood and leaned over the table to break it. Then, you curled up in the other chair. “She brought me here.”

“The girl who couldn’t leave her stories behind?” you asked.

He nodded. “Essie,” he whispered. You leaned your chin in your hand and watched him. The red tip of his cigarette smoldered and glowed in his eyes, lighting a fire somewhere behind them that drew Sweeney away from you and your table. “Met her grandmother,” he rasped. His voice had changed; it’d grown deeper with a memory, his accent thicker, his words almost ancient; it was small, too, and fragile, as though it carried a heavy weight on the thinnest of eggshells. His fingers curled on the tabletop. You stretched out your free hand and brushed them. He clasped yours gently, his thumb brushing over the surface of his ring, and suddenly his eyes cleared, and he was looking down at that ring like it had shocked him.

“Where’d you go?” you quietly asked.

He put the cigarette out on the windowsill, making you frown and hum in annoyance, and smiled down at your hand. “Shores of Érie,” he whispered, and you thought you could smell the water and the grass just from the reverence in his voice. You inhaled slowly, deeply, and instead found the sharp tang of chemical cleaner and cloves coating your lungs.

You watched him twist the ring on your finger. He didn’t move to take it, just twisted it. You stretched your fingers down his palm. Your heart fluttered. “Can you tell me about it?” you asked.

Sweeney propped his elbow on the windowsill and continued to watch the quiet scene outside while his thumb and forefinger turned the ring. “She came through a fairy ring when she was a girl,” he murmured.

In your ear – or the back of your head – you heard the pages of a book turn. You glanced over your shoulder, searching for the sound, and found nothing but the old wallpaper of the hotel room, the chair, and your bag next to it.

“She reminded me of my girl in that dress a her’s,” he continued. His voice was fading, thick with memory as he spun the ring on your finger. “Danced with her and the fireflies and told her stories.” You smiled as you watched him. You thought you could see the flickering yellow bugs in his eyes.

“Hard to see you dancing,” you gently teased. The light lingered when he looked up at you with a grin that was far more playful than you had expected, given where you were and who you were waiting for. His fingers turned and clasped your hand and he pulled you from the chair with ease. You choked out a laugh and stumbled over your feet. He caught you, twirled you under his arm until you stood across from him, and he bowed – bowed! - at the waist, an arm behind his back and a wicked and downright joyous grin on his face. You mimicked him with a brilliant smile of your own and, suddenly, you found yourself believing that he had once been a leprechaun, one of the Fair Folk beneath the Hill, because this wasn’t Mad Sweeney you were seeing, but an older and far wilder man.

He straightened and tugged you to him and took off across the floor with a laugh. You followed with a bright giggle, finding it easy to shadow his quick two-step around the empty space of the room.

(The Starbright Motel was brimming with magic then, with a corpse finding her heart beating in one room, an old man speaking with his thoughts and his memory in another, and a leprechaun filling a room with a memory in a third. The magic sank into the worn and eaten wood of the motel and other patrons felt a spark in their chests, urging them to change things in their own lives, and felt a little lucky to be in that motel that night.)

You laughed as Sweeney spun you, the tune he hummed ringing in your ears like a full band played. He pulled you back to him, his hand low on your waist and a laugh on his lips.

For a moment, you were in the woods, surrounded by trees illuminated by a massive bonfire. Sweeney grinned, his hair brushing his shoulders in gentle waves while small plaits pulled pieces from his gold and emerald eyes. You smelled the wood and the ash and the petrichor from a distant storm and felt soft fabric drift around your legs as the fae before you launched you both into another dance. The music roared in your ears and you laughed and laughed.

Red and blue lights strobed across your vision and you turned to the window. Sweeney crossed the room, his song and his dance and his memory forgotten as he pulled the curtain back with a quiet, “Fuck.”

You opened the door to watch the cops lead Shadow and Mr. Wednesday to the back of their patrol car, wondering what they were being arrested for, then crossing your arms. What did this mean for you and your job? Your payment? What was gonna happen?

Mr. Wednesday looked up and met your eyes before he was helped into the back of the car, and he smiled. You frowned. “Weird,” you whispered. Sweeney appeared at your shoulder, though didn’t peer out at them. “They’re getting arrested,” you said.

“Do you see the Dead Wife?” he asked.

“No?” you answered, looking back at him.

He grabbed the door and slipped around you, silent for a man as large as he was, and was throwing open the door next door before you could stop him.

“Are you fucking serious?” you said to yourself.

The kind of bang that only a large body being thrown into a wall would make caused you to jump.

“Okay?” you swore, making sure to keep the door to your room open a crack before scrambling next door.

Sweeney was on the floor and a woman you could only assume was Laura Moon looked up when you entered the room. “Who the fuck are you?” she asked, standing from a crouched position.

“Uh,” is the only response you managed.

Sweeney thumped his head against the wall, snarling out a swear and said, “She’s got my coin.” He looked up at you, and you looked down at him, watching as he cradled his hand against his chest. “I can see it in her fuckin’ cunt throat!” he growled.

Laura started towards him. You threw your hands out and stepped over his sprawled-out legs, backing up as Laura stomped into your space. You lifted your hands more and shouted, “If you hit him again, he’s gonna break like a fuckin’ toothpick!”

“Maybe that’s the plan!” Laura shouted back. She smelled like body wash and rot.

“Maybe the plan is for you to give me my fuckin’ coin back!” Sweeney shouted. You kicked his thigh. “Fuck!”

Something in Laura’s flat eyes flickered, like she realized something. She looked down at Sweeney, then at you, and stepped back. You lowered your hands. “He can’t just take it, can he?” she asked.

_“Will you give it back?”_

The words rang like a deadly curse in your head and your heart dropped to your shoes. Sweeney didn’t say a word. Laura crouched beside him and poked a single finger against his temple. “I have to give it to you, don’t I?”

He snarled at her. She smiled when she stood, and paced across the room, scratching her neck. You turned around and knelt in front of him, taking his hand between yours. The knuckles, which were spread as though someone had split his hand in two, snapped back into place. He curled his fingers around yours, and you found his were shaking very faintly.

“I’ll give you another one,” he called over your shoulder.

Laura turned around. “What, no.” She crossed her arms. “Is the Jolly Ginger Giant your boyfriend or something?” she asked you as you stood, “That why you’re here?”

Sweeney snorted instead of letting you answer. “Give you a whole slew a coins for the one in yer rottin’ chest,” he mumbled. You felt his hat smack against the back of your legs as he fished it from his jacket.

“He do this a lot?” Laura asked.

Sweeney latched a hand onto your arm as he pulled himself up, one which you steadied with a roll of your eyes. “Which part?” you asked. Laura just waved a hand at the whole of him, earning a click of the tongue from the leprechaun in question. You puffed out an air of exasperation and shrugged. “Is there any way you can give him the coin?” you asked.

She shrugged her thin shoulders, mouth turned down in a frown. “Dunno. Don’t really care. I like my coin.” Her eyes left your face and locked onto Sweeney’s. “My coin,” she emphasized.

He sniffed as he pulled the hat over his head. “Don’t have to wait long for all that rotten meat to slough off yer bones, when I can just pluck the coin outta yer fuckin’ cunt chest,” he grumbled.

You looked up at him with a whispered, “Stop calling her a cunt.”

“’ll stop callin’ her a cunt when she stops being a fuckin’ cunt,” he griped. He looked up. “The cunt,” he said with a loud emphasis of spit, “Is just gonna melt all the faster if she keeps soakin’ her corpse in water.”

You scrubbed a hand over your face and stepped away from him, scratching your eyebrow with a stressed-out sigh.

Laura, on the other hand, rose to the bait. “Then that’s what you’ll have to wait for!” she shouted, “For you to take it from my decaying body, because I’m not giving you my FUCKING coin!”

You really should have known how Sweeney would respond. You should have. But it still, somehow, surprised you when he released an angry snarl and tackled the petite woman through the wood partition between the bed and the bathroom. You stared for a moment, watched as he slammed her into the bathtub with both hands and a growl of, “You’ll give me back my fuckin’ coin!” before you calmly opened the door and slipped back into your room next door. You patted your pockets, wondering if your phone was on you – you could really use a conversation with your sister right about now, especially since watching Sweeney punt the Living Dead Girl ™ into a bathtub had jarred you so much that you started to dissociate.

Instead, you found the package of Red Vines, and pulled them free just as the cops burst through the doors of the motel room next to you. You idly wondered how you had avoided them seeing you. Maybe they’d only started to pay attention when Sweeney started screaming. Or, maybe they were more concerned with the fact that it looked like the angry Irish man was in the middle of murdering someone.

You leaned on the door frame as they dragged him out, chewing lazily on the licorice in your fingers, wondering if Sweeney was going to do anything about the fact that he was getting arrested. From the way he struggled – and was rapidly losing – to the two officers that were trying to force his hulking frame into the cruiser, you doubted he could do much.

His head shot up from the hood of the police car. “Oy!” he shouted, “Hey – fuckin’ get _off_ – tell them I’m innocent!” He jerked his arms around with a snarl. You thought that he might try to bite one of the cops – nope, not might, he certainly turned and snapped his teeth as they tried to pull him back. “Tell them she’s already dead!” he shouted. He pushed himself away from the car. The officers used this as leverage, hauling him around the open back door. “Tell them she’s already dead!” he snapped, voice cracking as he was all but thrown into the back.

The door shut.

One officer – who was sweating so bad from the ordeal that his collar stuck to his neck, glanced up at you. “You know this asshole?” he mumbled. He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead.

You swallowed the overly chewed piece of candy in your mouth and stared Sweeney dead in the eye through the front windshield. “Never seen him before in my life,” you deadpanned.

“Oh, for FUCKS sake!” you heard him shout. The car started to rock as he thrashed. “What did I do to you?!” he yelled as the officers climbed into car. You shrugged. The door next to you – door number 53 – opened to reveal the two men you had heard before. They moved to stand on either side of you. You tilted your head as you watched the police car leave, offering a Red Vine to either of the men that stood with you.

The taller one, the one with the beach waves pulled back in a short ponytail, took one. “So, was that your boyfriend?” he asked as he leaned his arm over your head. You saw Sweeney crane his neck to look back through the back window. He started swearing something, sitting up more in the seat, until the cops took the turn a little harder than necessary and sent him sprawling out of view.

“Ew, no,” you automatically said as you took a bite of candy. Your heart skipped a little. What a traitor. “Why does everyone think he’s my fucking boyfriend?” you mumbled.

“Was the other guy?” asked the second of the two. He was shorter, but with larger arms than his companion. The second man leaned on your other side.

“Which guy?” you asked. All three of you turned towards the room, where another cop was radioing back to dispatch about the dead body in the room. You frowned a little. This was going to be a problem.

“You know? The large guy? Shaved head?” asked the first man. He looked down at you. You looked up. His eyes suddenly widened, and he shoved the Red Vine half into his mouth, holding out his hand. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry, I’m being rude. Apellon,” he said around the candy.

You stared at him while your chewing slowly came to a stop. You then wrinkled your nose and took his hand to shake it. “Don’t even bother to hide, do you?”

“Why should he?” asked the man on the other side of you. He braced his hands behind him and gently bounced himself against the wall, watching you and Apellon with mirth in his eyes. “There’s weirder names out there than Apellon.”

“Like what?” you challenged.

They looked at each other. “Ignius,” they answered together. You snorted and looked down at your shoes, tilting your head in an agreement.

The other man held out his hand, still bouncing ever so gently against the wall. “Izzy,” he introduced. You took it with a smile. “I used to be known as Icarus,” he added.

“You’re making a comeback,” you said after introducing yourself. You took another bite of your candy. “Give it five, ten years, and the songs of Apollo and Icarus are going to be told as the ultimate love stories.” Apellon laughed with a shy smile and Izzy just shook his head. “I think your story is probably my favorite.”

“Why’s that?” asked Izzy as the three of you turned your heads to see another officer head into the motel room, and then back out with a tragic shake of his head.

You offered both of them the last licorice, which they took and split into three parts, and after taking your offered piece, you threw the packaging away and peeked into the motel room again. “Because you knew what you wanted, despite what everyone said, and worked hard to get it,” you answered. You looked back at the officer to see him talking into his radio, then darted into the room with a quiet call of, “Be right back.”

The room was a mess, with splintered wood covering the floor. You gingerly stepped over a piece and investigated the bath, where the water was still, and Laura lay gently at the bottom. She reminded you of that painting, if someone were to take it and change it to a modern setting – the one of the girl, from the play, who waded into the river with rocks in her pockets after fucking the prince of some European country. You tilted your head as you leaned over the water and stared at her face, wondering what the name of the fucking play was.

Laura winked at you.

You rolled your eyes. “He got arrested, you know,” you said. Her lips tilted up in a smile. “God you are just as bad as him, holy shit,” you whispered.

“Hey!” You snapped up, feeling something pull in your neck at the sudden reaction. The cop from outside stood in the door, his hand on his belt, where his gun rested. “This is a crime scene!” he exclaimed. You looked back down at the water, at Laura, and a plan – some half-assed scheme that you could only partially blame on Sweeney’s influence on you – started to form in your head. You trembled your chin and stepped back. “You can’t be in here,” the cop continued, though now he was hesitant, and a little worried. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Oh, just--” You made to wipe at your eyes and turned to him. “Never thought I would see my sister again!” You hiccupped and stretched the cuffs of your sweatshirt so hard that the seams popped. “Let alone dead!” you wailed.

“Oh.” The cop squirmed. He held out a hand and gently patted your shoulder, then coaxed you outside, where he left you next to Izzy and Apellon with a gentle whisper of, “Can you...watch...?” Then, he took off for his car, fingers on the radio at his shoulder.

You turned your back to the cop and looked up at the two with dry eyes. “I’m just inconsolable,” you murmured. Apellon pursed his lips and scooped you into his arms, squeezing you and rocking you from side to side. Izzy patted your back and dropped his head on your shoulder, more to smother his rising snorts and giggles than you offer you any comfort.

“What’s with the dead girl?” Apellon quietly asked against your hair.

You threw one arm around Izzy and the other around Apellon’s waist with a soft, hiccupping hum. “He’s not looking anymore,” Izzy mumbled.

You shrugged. “She has something that my—”

“Boyfriend?” Apellon offered.

You kicked his shin. “Irish friend,” you finished with emphasis, “Wants back.” A pang of embarrassed horror warmed your skin, and you looked up at Apellon with a front. “Sorry, that was rude.”

He cocked his head to the side and grinned. You could see the sun behind his eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. He lifted his arms from around you and squished your face between his hands. “What’s a shin kick between friends?”

You weren’t expecting that. Friends? You’d just met these guys! You thought about Syne, though, and her many texts, and about Ignius and his offer for any kind of assistance; of Mr. Nancy and his help despite his bitterness, and Bast with her constant visits; of Mei and of Lynn and of Hody and the shoes that warmed your toes despite the late Spring nip on the air.

His arms wound around your neck in a loose hug and he set his chin on your head. “Oh, shit,” he murmured, “Please don’t cry.”

“Why are you making people cry, sunshine?” mumbled Izzy. The two spoke above your head as you stared absently at the door next to you.

You had friends in these deities that you had met, not just Sweeney. Why had it taken you so long to realize?

A van trundled into the parking lot, and a man climbed out of the front seat with a metal clipboard. You watched him open the back doors, big black things that were marked with the word CORONER, pull out a gurney, and roll it across the parking lot into the room next to you. There was a moment of gentle cursing, of the guy struggling to get Laura’s body into a bag, and then onto the gurney, and then he wheeled it out and back towards the van.

It took you a moment too long to realize that you couldn’t let her go alone – especially without anyone knowing where she was going. “Shit,” you mumbled. You wiggled out of Apellon’s hold with a whisper of, “Hold on, I gotta catch that corpse.”

“I’m sorry did you just--” Apellon spoke at your back as you started towards the van. “Catch a corpse?” he repeated.

“Oh, this is gonna be hilarious,” Izzy muttered.

You jogged over to the coroner, watching as he examined the open zipper on the side of the bag. Laura was still very much dead inside, and you got the feeling she wasn’t gonna get any deader. He zipped it up. “Uh, excuse me,” you called as you approached. He looked up. His name tag said Tim. “Tim, the coroner,” you awkwardly said. You snapped your fingers together and clapped your hands. “Uh, can I ride with you?” you asked.

He folded the clipboard under his arm. “Why?”

You shrugged. “Uh.” You looked down at your feet. Fuck, what would Sweeney say in this situation? “That’s my sister?” you said as you looked back up. You wouldn’t believe you if you were Tim.

Tim crossed his arms. “Your sister?” he asked.

“Yup,” you said, nodding, “Mm-hm.”

“What’s her name?” he asked. He lifted the clipboard and clicked his pen.

Holy shit, you though, maybe you’d pull it off. “Jane,” you quickly answered as you shoved your hands into your back pockets.

Tim slowly lifted his eyes to you, arching an eyebrow. “Jane?” he asked.

“Yup,” you replied.

He wrote it down. “Last name?”

“Doe.”

This time Tim slapped his hands against his thighs, staring at you with blatant disbelief. “Jane Doe?” he asked.

“Yup,” you said while smacking your lips. You rocked back on your heels. “Jane Janis Joplin Doe,” you clarified while nodding your head. You thought you heard Laura groan. Tim didn’t hear it though. “Parents were really fond of J names,” you sighed.

Tim planted his hands on his hips. “Oh yeah?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” you lied. You knew Apellon and Izzy were watching you, you just knew it, and you looked over when Tim looked back down at his clipboard to write something down to see Apellon filming you with his phone. You scrunched your face up, glaring at him, and turned right back around before Tim could see you.

“And your name?” he asked.

“Jack,” you quickly answered with a straight face. You rolled your lips together and added, “Jack Johannes Jingle Doe.”

Tim just stared at you. Poor Tim, you thought, he does not get paid enough to deal with your bullshit, or whatever bullshit Laura would have to pull to be able to escape the coroner’s van. “Jingle,” he slowly said.

“Our grandmother’s name,” you replied.

“And Johannes?” he asked.

“Our grandfather’s,” you answered with a smile.

He tapped his pen against his clipboard and straightened. Oh, you knew that look in his eye. That was a look that said he was going to roll with this and see how far you took it. You smiled wider. “Your parents' names,” he said simply enough, throwing in a shrug and a sympathetic smile, “Gotta inform the rest of the family so we can find out next of kin.”

“Oh, well, that would be John Josephat Jimothy Doe and Janet Jorothea Jameline Doe, sir,” you replied with a brilliant smile.

“How the fuck did that come out so smoothly?” you heard Izzy whisper.

Tim nodded slowly. The doubt was starting to fade a little in his eyes. Were you pulling his leg or were you serious? Those were some out-of-left-field names, so he couldn’t be sure. Still, he looked down at his clipboard and wrote ‘John J.J. Doe’ and ‘Janet J.J. Doe’, along with ‘Jack J.J. Doe’ and ‘Jane J.J. Doe’ in the name for the deceased. He clicked his pen. “You can ride in the back with her,” he murmured, then turned and walked to the front of the van.

You climbed up into it and pulled the doors shut.

The zipper inched open. “What the actual fuck was that?” Laura whispered.

You licked your bottom lip and sat down. “Grade A bullshit, mania, and wishful fuckin’ thinking,” you whispered back. She smiled.

“I like you,” she said.

“Feeling’s mutual,” you replied with a grin. She sat her head back. “I don’t know why he kept insisting you were a cunt.”

“Ginger Minge?” she asked. The van started to move. You nodded. She shrugged. “Don’t have the faintest idea.”

“Are you okay back there?” Tim shouted over the roar of the poorly kept engine. Laura’s eyes widened, and she hastily zipped the bag back up as he glanced over his shoulder. He pulled out onto the freeway and started to drive.

“Yeah!” you replied, clearing your throat. “Just uh,” you looked down at the bag. You could barely see Laura’s eyes peeking out from the hole she made in the bag. “Talking to Jane,” you finished.

“Oh.” He looked away awkwardly. “You can keep doing that then.”

You arched an eyebrow and looked down at Laura. She rolled her eyes. You smiled. You kept quietly chatting with her while the van drove down the freeway and into the city. She told you about herself, though she carefully avoided a few topics with a mindful glare. You shared in kind, and actively avoided the topic of just what Sweeney was to you. It made your heart pound uncomfortably and your palms sweat. You didn’t like it.

Eventually, the van rolled into a garage about twenty minutes later, where an attendant helped the coroner roll Laura’s gurney through some doors and into a hall. You followed, picking at the frays of your sweatshirt, tearing the fold in the cuffs until they split completely. The attendant told you to wait out in the hall, that he would take your information in a moment.

Tim hesitated out of arms reach on his way out. “I’m…sorry, Jack,” he said slowly.

It took you a minute to look up, and look upset, and then nod to him. He left before you could say anything to him. You puffed your cheeks out and sighed loudly, glad to be done with that load of nonsense.

Except, you weren’t. The attendant came out a few minutes later, asking you all sorts of questions and holding a clip board. You took it and skimmed the papers, answering as sloppily as you could with the pen, bouncing in place and bobbing your head to his answers. He eyed you as you handed it back to him.

“Can I see her?”

“They’re working on her right now,” he said with a frown. “Do you know why she’s already got autopsy scars?”

You rolled your eyes up to the ceiling. “Jane was a real punk rocker?” you tried. You really hoped your face didn’t give anything away. You knew autopsy scars were a legit thing in the world, but you didn’t know much beyond that! How were you supposed to explain this bullshit?

The guy nodded, though, and shrugged. “Shame.” Then, he turned around and started back towards the morgue. He turned on his heel. “I’ll come get you when you can see her.” Then, he added, “Cool shoes.”

“Thanks?”

He disappeared through a set of swinging doors. Seconds later, much to your surprise, there was an explosion, and a scream, and the sound of flesh smacking against metal. You scrambled through the swinging doors and found Laura, very naked, climbing out of the freezer cupboard. Across the room was the attendant, now squished by the door that once held Laura in a wall. You looked back at her and tilted your head. There was gold tracing through her veins.

“Can you help me find my clothes?” she asked, scratching her head. “I didn’t see where they put them.”

“Uh…” You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOF! OKAY!!! HOW DID YOU GUYS LIKE THAT CHAPTER???? I know it took FOREVER to come out, and I apologize, but this was??? A difficult chapter for some reason. But anyway!!! What did you think of the introduction of Laura?? How does it feel to have met Apollo and Icarus??? What about those little scenes with Sweeney???? Let me know what you think!!!!!


	13. ...and the Yellow Taxicab

The walk back to the motel was a long one, but it wasn’t quiet. You and Laura spoke more – she asked you why you were traveling, and you told her about the job with Wednesday. You asked her why she was wandering around, and she told you it was because of her husband. Neither of you prodded for details, as new friends were careful to do.

She swung her arms in front of her as she jumped onto a parking spot bumper, clapping her palms together. “So.” You glanced up at her warily as you stepped over the same bumper. “You and Ginger Minge.”

“No,” you groaned, hunching into your sweatshirt.

“Oh, come on,” she said as she stepped off the bumper. “Not everyone goes running into a room where there’s obviously a fight for just anyone. And there’s that look he has when he looks at you.”

“You’ve seen him for all of five minutes!” you protested, “Most of which involved you kicking his ass and him drowning you.”

“What’s your point?” she asked.

You huffed as you looked around the parking lot. The car you and Sweeney had driven to the motel was gone, as were most of the cars. Betty was still parked in front of the room, though, and you had to wonder if that was a courtesy from the cops that arrested Shadow and Mr. Wednesday. A taxi was parked near it. “My point is,” you said as you patted your pockets for your hotel key. With a nervous trill of your heart, you found your pockets empty. You ducked to the door next to yours and gently knocked on it. “Even if you guys weren’t occupied with trying to kill each other, there wouldn’t be a look.”

The door swung inward. Apellon, who was shirtless and looked exactly like someone’s idea of a Californian surfer, grinned at the sight of you. Behind you, Laura hummed with appreciation. You looked over your shoulder at her. “Who’s your friend?” she asked.

“Gay and taken,” you answered.

“Pan,” Apellon corrected with an emphatic nod, “And taken.”

You flapped your hand at him. “Do you have my stuff?” you asked him.

Izzy released a muffled shout from inside the room. Apellon stepped back and waved his hand, allowing you to step inside. Someone shouted somewhere behind you. Izzy was brushing his teeth and reaching behind the bed, hefting your bag onto the messy sheets. Your muscles relaxed. You scrubbed your forehead and shoved your hair back as you wandered over. Izzy tilted his head back, gurgling the toothpaste, and said, “We saw y’all leave and thought we’d grab your stuff for when you came back.”

You snorted a little. “Y’all,” you mumbled.

“Shuddup,” Izzy grumbled. He disappeared back into the bathroom.

You knelt on the bed and unzipped your bag, digging through it to make sure that all of your things were there. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust the two gods – you did! – but it was to ease your anxiety of it having been out of your sight. You tugged The Book – it had earned its title at this point, you felt – from the bottom of the bag and sighed, holding it close to your chest.

Izzy flipped the light to the bathroom off and sat on the corner of the bed. “What’s that?” he softly asked. You hummed and pulled The Book from your chest. You followed his gaze when you found him frowning. He was watching Apellon at the door. “Um?”

Sweeney stumbled over the parking space bumper, his upper lip curled in a snarl and his hands still held behind his back. “Who the fuck are you?” he growled, stepping into Apellon’s radiant glow.

The epitome of a golden retriever grinned at the leprechaun with whom he stood eye to eye. “Apollo,” he answered smoothly, “God of the sun in the land of the Greeks.” Sweeney rolled his eyes. “You’re the Jolly Ginger Giant, right?” he asked.

“Sunshine,” Izzy chastised.

Laura sat next to you on the bed with a snort. “I like this guy,” she said. She looked over her shoulder at the exasperated Icarus. “Do you share?”

“No,” he flatly replied. Laura shrugged.

“Mad Sweeney,” Sweeney corrected over all the commentary. The cuffs on his wrists clanked as he tried to snap his arms forward. He growled loudly, thrashing his arms as he tried to yank them free, and stumbled over his own feet. Apellon caught him by the elbow. “Leggo, you bright eyed musical fuck!” he snarled.

The blonde shook him and swung him around into a chair. You heard the gentle snap of the cuff’s links. “Someone’s in a bad mood,” Apellon grumbled. Sweeney crumbled into the chair, pulling his hands out from behind his back and rubbing his raw wrists.

“No, you’re just always in a good mood,” Izzy replied. He tilted his head over his shoulder. “Bathroom’s free.” Apellon kissed the crown of Izzy’s head and disappeared through the door.

The glare Sweeney leveled you with was the darkest you had seen from him yet. You arched your eyebrow and tucked the book into your duffle, standing with a loud sigh. As you pulled the bag onto your shoulder, you waved at him. “You deserved that,” you stated.

“Fuck I did,” he growled.

“You’re the one that mass tackled someone through a partition!” you argued.

“That doesn’t mean you just leave me to the cops!” Sweeney shouted.

“Yes, it does!” you shouted back.

“Children!!” Laura screeched. You and Sweeney snapped your mouths closed, each of you glaring at the other as you huffed and puffed and stood inches apart. You didn’t know when he stood up – couldn't even remember when he moved towards you, actually. But he towered over you, making you crane your neck back to look at him. “Are you done?” she asked. She shoved her way between you both, pushed you apart, and headed outside. “We need to find a car.”

“What, why?” you asked, staring after her.

Sweeney stalked outside, head swinging from side to side, and stomped out of sight. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. It bothered you a bit – why'd he jump to it like that?

Laura waved her hand towards the darkness. “Shadow. Duh.”

“Uh?” you crossed your arms. “I have a job. I can’t just go running after your husband because you want to see him again,” you said.

“You work for Wednesday, right?” Apellon shouted from the bathroom. You squeezed your sides and turned around, leaning back against the door, the duffle providing you with some cushion. He, in turn, leaned out of the bathroom while wiping his face. “We’re going to the Rock. We can take you there if they need to go somewhere,” he offered.

“The FUCK you will!” shouted Sweeney from the parking lot. You threw a glance at the door. How? Did he hear that?

You held up a finger, smiling as sweetly as you could, and stepped outside. He was off to your left, prying open the door of a yellow taxicab. He leaned on it and watched you move closer to him. Laura wandered after you. “What’s the problem?” you asked him. His eyes flickered over your form, barely lingering on your face. “You have your coin, and I’m sure you have an idea of how to get it from her while she’s still kicking and kind of alive.”

“Aye,” he said as he folded his arms over the door, “I do. In Kentucky, actually.”

“Okay, and I still have a job to do, which might not involve Kentucky,” you replied. You shrugged your shoulders, and found your voice growing softer as you finally stopped at the end of the open door. “So, I don’t see what the big problem is with having them drive me to the Rock if you’re going somewhere else.”

Sweeney sniffed and swiped at his nose, looking out across the empty parking lot. His scowl deepened as he watched something, and you followed his gaze to see Black Betty rolling out of the parking lot. You turned around to face the space it once occupied. Laura was walking towards it and picked up a folded piece of paper that sat in the middle. “You tired o’ me?” he murmured.

You turned back to him, frowning as he looked you in the eye. “What, no,” you quickly answered, dropping your arms. “Sweeney, I don’t think I’m capable of being tired of you,” you said, “You’re my best friend.”

He scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes, glancing away only when Laura appeared at your side. He arched an eyebrow at the paper she handed you, which you folded into your palm. “What, you let all yer best friends get snatched up by the cops?” he asked with a growing smirk.

You rolled your eyes and looked down at the paper, muttering, “Only the assholes.”

Laura swung her arms and started asking Sweeney what was in Kentucky, which prompted him to nudge the door open more and crouch under the steering wheel. You vaguely heard a door open, and Izzy say something, but didn’t really process it. All that ran through your mind was the one word on the note: Kentucky.

You looked up, ready to announce that Sweeney had complained for nothing, when you finally spotted the man that stood in front of the taxi, who held a gun. You lifted your hands and swung your foot towards Sweeney’s ass.

He knocked his head against the steering wheel when your kick connected and snapped, “What?!”

“Please, stop stealing my cab,” said the man with the gun. Sweeney looked out the front window and froze.

Laura sighed, “Of course we’d try to steal the only car with a driver that cares.” She peeked over her shoulder at the men that now stood in their doorway. “How’d you guys get here?” she asked.

Apellon shrugged and smirked but didn’t answer. Izzy appeared at his side.

Sweeney slowly stood and shut the door. He stepped between you and the man and the gun he held with both hands. You stepped closer, ready to move around him, when Sweeney said, “Bet that’s not even loaded.”

You ducked as a gunshot rang through the air, purposefully aimed high over the leprechaun’s head. You swatted his massive back with a litany of swears. “You tempting-fate motherfucker!” you whispered. What was he thinking? Nothing, apparently, absolutely nothing was going on in that head of his! You quickly stepped around him as the man lowered the gun again, this time with hands that shook. “We just need a ride!” you shouted.

The man frowned. “Is that why you’re stealing my cab?” he asked.

Laura waved her hand as she crossed her arms. “To be fair, we stopped stealing it,” she pointed out.

“I’ll pay you,” you said with a heavy sigh. You stuttered and gripped the strap of your bag. “I’ve got plenty of cash.”

“I don’t want money,” he replied.

Something tickled the back of your mind as you watched him. The gun lowered even more. “I can do you a favor,” you offered. You felt Sweeney’s hand on your shoulder and quickly waved him off, swatting at him as he continued to try to grab you. You closed the space between yourself and the cab driver and introduced yourself. Then, you shrugged. “Granting favors is kind of my specialty,” you added.

His hands fell to his sides and he glanced down at the weapon. “My name is Salim,” he softly said after a long moment. He shrugged his hand. “I didn’t have another shot anyway,” he muttered. He looked up at you. “Where do you need to go?”

“Kentucky,” you answered, and held out the paper Laura had given you. “What’s your favor?” You could see the paper change when he took it and frowned. Weird.

“I’m looking for,” he paused, “Someone.” He fingers fidgeted with the corners of the note. “I don’t know if you would understand.”

You rocked forward on the balls of your feet with a smile. “You know what? You might be surprised.”

Salim agreed on Kentucky, and you pulled both your journal and a book from your duffle before throwing it into the back of the taxi. You said your goodbyes to Izzy and Apellon, who gave you both of their numbers and a fierce hug.

“Take care, Starshine,” the sun whispered into your hair, “We’ll see you soon.”

(He would never admit it, but something pierced Sweeney’s heart, then, when he saw you wrapped up in the arms of another man. Something hot and livid and possessive that he hadn’t felt in a long time.)

You then piled into the back seat of the taxi with Sweeney, while Laura sat in the front, and you were off. A few minutes into the drive, Sweeney pulled your legs over his lap and stretched his out into your footwell when you arched an eyebrow at him. The metal of his broken handcuffs was cold against your legs, but the heat of his hands wrapping around your calves seemed to balance it out. You clicked the pen you had wedged into your journal and leaned into your knees, both to squint at the page in the dark and to write down a few things in the L section.

What could you write about Laura? You knew a few different kinds of zombie stories from your reading at school, and you flipped through the book you had pulled out of your bag in search of a specific one. They were stories from the Middle Ages – ghost stories, but you remembered there was one that – aha! Revenant: a person who has supposedly returned from the dead. Revenant seemed to fit the best. You wrote the highlights of the story from the book, mentioning how they were conscious of their surroundings and were still attached to their life. Granted, she wasn’t brought back because of love or revenge, but the magic of a coin that wasn’t hers, but what did semantics mean to a coin of a king and a leprechaun?

You traced the coin that hung from your neck with your thumb.

_I was a king once._

You frowned at the page as your mind wandered to the book with Sweeney’s name, the one in the library that wasn’t really a library.

The man in question shook your legs, drawing your attention away from the terrible scribbles you had managed. “Yer gonna ruin yer eyes,” he mumbled. His own were half-lidded as he watched you, exhaustion evident on his face. The intensity of his stare made your face warm. He lifted a hand and gently poked the spot between your brows. “Get wrinkles,” he added through a yawn, “Crow’s feet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks,” you muttered. “You should sleep.”

His fingers pressed into your legs. “Yeah,” he muttered. You shifted around carefully and closed your books, setting them on the empty space of the seat. Then, leaning into Sweeney’s side, you relaxed, and closed your eyes yourself. Sweeney dropped an arm around your shoulders.

Your dream was just you on a cliff, basking in the warmth of the sun.

It wasn’t too long until the sun rose and the light stirred you from your nap. Sweeney grunted as the taxi came to a stop. He squinted out through the dirty window with a frown. “The fuck’re we doin’…?”

“It’s time for me to pray,” Salim answered as he turned off the taxi.

Laura kicked open her door. “Can I come?” she asked as she climbed out. Salim’s response was muffled on the other side of the car. You sat up and scrubbed your eyes. Sweeney stretched as much as he could and opened the door. Trees lined the road, stretching out as far as you could see. You wondered where in the world you were and had no idea how long you had been asleep or which roads Salim was taking to get to Kentucky. Or, even, where in Kentucky you were going. You hadn’t gotten the note back from Salim.

“Where are you going?” you croaked as Sweeney headed for the trees.

He glanced back as he lit a cigarette. His other hand was on the top of his pants. “Just stay there!” he called as he slipped into the shadows.

You groaned and stood, stretching your arms over your head. You decided to switch out your book with something else that you had yet to read. Then, you peeled off your sweatshirt and, with a water bottle you still had and soap you had packed, washed your face and pits and other bits that felt too gross, then donned a new tee shirt. After, you just stood in the sun, basking in the warmth. It felt good, and familiar, and you absently wondered why. You rubbed your warm and aching shoulder and watched the vibrant green leaves sway in the breeze and turn up towards the sky.

Eventually, Salim and Laura returned to the taxi, and you pulled your phone from your pocket, flipping it around in your hand. Laura sat on the hood and smoked, and Salim stood next to her, the two chatting amicably and easily. You smiled. It was nice. Despite the circumstances, it was nice to be around people.

A hand slapped your back and fingers curled into your tee-shirt. You turned around, frowning when you briefly spotted Sweeney’s wide eyes. They flicked away from you – his face completely turned away from you and he stared into the trees behind him. “Do you see it?” he whispered. He crowded closer.

You stepped around his side and squinted into the trees. They were thin trees, with branches covered in lush foliage and brown bark that just seemed so vibrant in the early morning sun. You set your hand on his arm and frowned. His muscles were tense, bunched up and ready to yank you away from the forest’s edge at a moment’s notice. Beneath that, you almost thought he was trembling. When you looked up at his face, his jaw was clenched and the cigarette between his lips was a crumpled, useless thing.

You slid your hand down his arm until you could firmly grasp his fingers and tugged them out of the fabric of your shirt. You held his hand between both of yours and stepped back into his side. The tremble was much more noticeable in his hand, which curled around one of yours to try to hide it. “What am I looking for?” you softly asked.

He shifted when he looked down at you – you felt his arm pull against your hands – but you kept an eye on the trees. It wasn’t often that you saw Sweeney shaken by anything. In fact, during the entire time that you had known him, the only thing that was close was after being shot at while at the Tatum Estate and that was mania. No, this was something else. This was fear. Your eyes jumped from tree to tree as you examined them. Maybe you were missing something? You’d read about things in the forests – nymphs and shapeshifters and old, nameless gods that called the shade of the canopy their home for longer than human memory could recall. There could be something in the trees.

Then again, as you felt Sweeney’s eyes trace your face, maybe there wasn’t. He was mad, after all. It was in his name.

You looked up at him after another long moment of examination. He exhaled hard through his nose and turned his gaze back to the trees. “Heard someone,” he finally answered, “Someone runnin’ like they got hell after ‘em.”

“Do you still hear it?” you asked. His hand tensed. “Them?” you quickly corrected. His fingers relaxed.

He stared into the shade of the forest for so long that he looked like a statue, some immovable guardian to the woods in Middle America. You heard the pebbles of the road shift and glanced back to see Salim and Laura moving down off the road towards you two. Looking back up, you found Sweeney’s head had turned an inch, his ear towards the pair, and whatever spell the woods had cast on him broke. He released your hand and pulled his cigarette from his lips, tossing it into the plush grass. “No.” He turned and stalked past you, shoulders hunched around his ears, shoving between Salim and Laura. He took the front seat and slammed the door without a word.

“What’s with him?” Laura asked as you made your way up to her.

You shook your head. “Dunno,” you murmured. You waved to the back seat. “Wanna sit with me?” You cast another glance at the woods. They were still.

She nodded, and you two wandered back to the taxi. It was silent on the next leg of your journey. You curled up in the corner of the back seat, flipping through the pages of your next book while balancing The Book on your knee. Laura smoked, and kept the window cracked at Salim’s request.

The day passed.

Salim prayed.

You read.

Laura smoked.

Sweeney stayed quiet.

Eventually, Salim pulled into a gas station in the late afternoon. You stretched and dropped the book into your duffle, trading it for your wallet and yet another book. You hoped Mrs. Friday wouldn’t be too upset with you about sending her so many books. “Does anyone want anything?” you called as you shut the trunk. You tossed the book into the back seat.

“Water?” asked Salim as he fished cash from his pocket. “And could you pay for the gas inside?” He held the money out over the top of the taxi.

Sweeney snatched it as he climbed out, making it disappear in one hand and reappear in the other, which he held in front of your face. You smiled and gently took the folded bills from his fingers. He arched an eyebrow as a smirk tilted up his lips. He seemed to be feeling better. You had noticed long ago that he never really messed with the Hoard unless he was in a good mood.

“Can you get me another pack of smokes?” Laura asked as she leaned on the hood of the taxi. She shrugged one thin shoulder. “I don’t care what kind.”

“Sure,” you replied. You counted out the money, then waved to Salim. “I’ll bring you change.” You lightly kicked Sweeney’s boot before walking to the gas station doors. “You comin’ with?”

“Course I am,” he grunted.

“Course you are,” you repeated with a smile. He snorted and shoved his hands in his pockets, knocking your shoulder with his arm. A smell rolled off him, but it wasn’t unkind – something wild, with a hint of the woods before the rain, and an undertone of freshly minted metal. You leaned into him as you opened the door, sniffing absently to make sure you weren’t imagining it. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he held the door open with a hand over your head. You shuffled inside.

Sweeney made an immediate beeline towards the liquor and you followed with a worried frown. Before he could grab anything, you squeezed his arm and leaned into his side. He looped an arm around your shoulders and rested his hand on your head, pulling it against his arm. You gurgled. “You’re gonna pop my head off!” you groaned.

“No, I won’t,” he said with a dramatic roll of his eyes. He released you, though, and let his arm drape over your chest. You didn’t miss how his fingers brushed your collarbone, nor how your heart beat a steady rhythm against them, as though he needed to make sure it still beat. “What should I get?” he mumbled.

You reached up with both hands and held onto his arm, staring at the bottles in front of you. Instead of answering, you asked, “Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he grumbled.

You pressed your face into his arm as you scratched your nose. The smell was stronger again, seeping from his every pore, as though it was a part of him. You didn’t know when he had changed like that – when his smell had changed from a distinctive wretched odor to something wilder and alluring. “You were pretty upset when we last stopped,” you finally said, resting your chin on his arm. You looked up at him. He just stared at the bottles, scratching his chin. “About the woods.”

He shrugged and tugged a bottle off the shelf. “Thought I heard something,” he muttered, “Guess I didn’t.”

“Sweeney—”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about, luv,” he growled. His arm left your shoulders. You rubbed the spot at your collarbone where your skin was still warm. Luv. That was a first. The warmth spread up your neck.

You gathered water, a few snacks, some other drinks, another bar of soap and a washcloth, then made your way to the counter for the cigarettes and to pay. The man behind the counter arched an eyebrow at your purchases but said nothing as he slid over your change to you. You shuffled back to the taxi.

“We’re going to Kentucky, right?” Laura shouted as you grew closer. You searched through the bag and tossed her the cigarettes, then nodded.

“We should get off the highway, though,” you said. You set the bag inside the taxi, right in your footwell, and held your change out to Salim. He took it with a soft thank you. “It’s safer,” you added, “I have a map.”

“That’ll take us longer,” Laura argued.

“Who fuckin’ cares if it takes us longer, Dead Wife?” Sweeney snapped. He flicked the cap of the bottle somewhere across the parking lot and took a long swig.

“I care!” she snapped back.

“Whoopde-fuckin-doo,” Sweeney muttered. He opened the back seat and ducked into the taxi.

“What the fuck is his problem?” Laura said as she whirled on you.

You held up your hands and heaved a sigh. “No idea,” you answered. You waved a hand, then climbed into the back seat. Sweeney was slouched back, taking deep pulls from the bottle. You faced him with a frown. You leaned over and shut the partition between the front and the back seats as Salim and Laura climbed back into the car. “What’s your problem?” you asked. Salim pulled out of the gas station.

Sweeney’s mouth made a suction sound as he pulled the bottle from between his lips. “Ain’t we already have this conversation?” he slurred.

You snatched the bottle from him, sloshing liquor into his lap, then rolled down your window and threw it outside. You heard it smash against the road. Sweeney stared at his empty hand, then at the stain spreading over his lap, and finally at you. “What the fuck?!” he snarled.

“I bought it,” you pointed out.

“I was drinkin’ ‘at!” he growled as he sat up.

“And?” you asked. You crossed your legs as you faced him, awkwardly wedged behind the seat. Laura twisted around to face you as your knee dug into her back. “You want a distraction?”

Sweeney draped an arm over the back of the seat, the anger in his eye shifting to something else. “In the back of a cab?” he suggested, his voice so low that you felt it crawl low in your gut. You twisted your mouth up and slugged the inside of his arm. He yanked it back. “Fuck!”

“Stop being nasty!” you chided. He snorted. “I meant maybe I could help you get your mind off it.” He tilted his head and his mouth tilted up in a smirk. You lifted your fist again, scrunching your face and puffing your cheeks. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!” you yelled.

Laura shoved the partition open. “What the fuck is going on back there?” she asked.

“Sweeney’s being nasty!” you exclaimed, like a child.

“Don’t tell on me to the fuckin’ dead cunt!” Sweeney shouted as he sat up, also sounding like a child.

Laura’s arm snaked through the opening. Her hand cupped over his face and yanked him forward, smacking his forehead against the partition. “Stop calling me that,” she calmly said, then tilted her head and yanked him against the plastic again. “And stop being crude.” She shoved his face back, and Sweeney thumped against the seat with a grunt.

Sweeney, in turn, yanked his hat out from inside his coat, and slumped back, ignoring you and Laura and Salim and pulling the hat over his face. You leaned back and stretched your legs out, and Sweeney, in turn, stretched his own out along the seat. He may have been sulking, but he was still stuck in the back seat with you.

After a long stretch of silence, you reached over and pulled Sweeney’s hat from over his face. He grunted and cracked open an eye, watching you pull the hat backwards over your head. He couldn’t help the smile that tilted up a corner of his mouth. You looked good with it. You shifted around, moved one of your legs under his until it pressed into the side of his hip. The both of you had become rather tangled in the back seat, with him leaning against one door and you on the other, but you were both comfortable, strangely enough. Sweeney couldn’t help but think that he would be more comfortable if you were leaning against him. The thought made his heart skip and his ear burn. If you noticed (which you didn’t) you blissfully said nothing.

Instead, you sat up. “Teach me a coin trick,” you finally said.

Sweeney uncrossed his arms and sat further up against the door. “Coin trick?” he asked.

“Did I stutter?” you shot back.

He rolled his eyes. “You’ve been around that cunt too long,” he grumbled. You slapped his leg. He huffed. “Alright, alright, stop hittin’ me,” he sighed. He jerked his chin at you. “What kinda trick you wantin’ to learn?” he asked.

You wiggled around and pulled your legs away from him until you were facing him, scrunched again behind Laura’s seat. “Teach me to pull a coin out of the Hoard,” you said.

He sat up, groaning like an old man, and wiggled his fingers for your hands. You gave them. “Of all the tricks I could teach ya,” he said, “You wanna learn that one.”

“Do you know others?” you asked. He turned your hands over in his own, and his fingers traced the lines in your palms. You watched them. His thumbs straightened your fingers out, then brushed back down them. He was warm. You didn’t want to pull your hands away. You didn’t want him to stop.

“That I do,” he murmured. You looked up. While you had watched his hands, he had watched you with half-lidded eyes and a faint, little smile. Your face burned. His smile grew into a knowing smirk. “Right. The Horde.”

He spent the afternoon teaching you, showing you the proper way to hold your fingers, how you could reach between sunbeams into the Horde and feel coins on the other side. He guided your fingers in a way that made your face burn more, and had you thinking of other things that his hands could do. You pushed the thoughts away. The taxi wasn’t the time or the place to entertain them.

Salim pulled over to pray, and the sun dipped below the horizon. You stretched as you stared out across the open field around you, then turned to your companions. “Think we could have a little campfire?” you asked. “Just take a little break from driving?”

“Why?” Laura and Sweeney asked. The former huffed and the latter glared, but they both turned to look at you as they waited for their answers.

You shrugged. “Why not?” you asked back. You lifted your arms. “It’s nice. Easter is still a few days away, and the Jinn isn’t going too far, right?” you said. You shrugged again and folded your arms around you. “Also, I’m sick of sitting in a car. I’d like to just take a break and I’ve never had a campfire.”

Salim shut the trunk. “A break doesn’t sound too bad,” he murmured. You waved your hand at him, excitement clear on your face as you bounced on the balls of your feet. He wandered towards you.

“Yeah, we can just sit, warm our bones, tell stories, and then we can keep driving!” you exclaimed with a bright smile.

Sweeney took one look at you and shuffled over with a heavy sigh and a poorly concealed smile. Laura groaned, but followed.

Between the four of you, you had a fire going in minutes. You sat by it with your hands held towards the flames. Sweeney had dug around in your duffle and found the collection of drinks you purchased from the last gas station. You held a bottle of soda between your thighs. Sweeney twisted the cap off a beer and sighed.

“So, you read a lot.” You glanced up at Laura, watching her recline back against the taxi. “Any favorites?” she asked as she lit what had to be her hundredth cigarette.

“I’m partial to fiction,” you answered. You shrugged and looked down at your bottle. “But, given the circumstances, mythology is a given.”

“Is that what’s in that bag of yours?” she continued, “Just a bunch of mythology books?”

“Well, yeah.” You adjusted yourself and leaned back on your hands. “I’ve met plenty of people already that I’ve needed to use those books for. Some of them have helped, others haven’t. What I’m done with, I send off to a library.”

“Oh, I bet she loves that,” Sweeney mused, taking a long pull from his beer.

You shrugged and smiled. “Haven’t had a complaint yet,” you replied. Then, you looked to Salim. “You’re going an awfully long way for your Jinn.”

“Wouldn’t you, if you were in my shoes?” he asked.

You looked at Sweeney before you realized what you were doing. Crossing your feet under your thighs, you clapped the small rocks off your hands. “Maybe,” you answered.

Laura cleared her throat and readjusted on the ground, crossing her legs in front of her. She didn’t chime in on the topic. You supposed she was going the same thing. Her feet were dangerous close to the fire. She cradled the beer in her lap and stared at you across the flames. “So, who are you?” she asked, changing the subject.

You looked up from your bottle of soda. “What do you mean?” you hesitantly asked.

She shrugged. “I mean you’ve got Ginger Minge, who isn’t really a leprechaun—” Sweeney grunted in disapproval and leaned back, “—Me, who is dead, and Salim, who is looking for a Jinn that he’s in love with.” She stared into your eyes and you frowned. “What about you?” she asked. She adjusted again. “And if you say that you’re doing this for Wednesday, I will punt you across this field.” You puffed out your cheeks and looked down at your drink, twisting and untwisting the top. “So, who are you?” she asked again.

You shrugged your shoulders and continued to stare down, feeling the heat and the weight of the three stares around you. You traced the lovingly drawn designs on your shoes with your thumb as you drew your knees up. What could you say? You hadn’t been anyone when you lived in Cairo – just going from one day to the next without another thought to what lay beyond the hour or minute you existed in. Even now you weren’t truly making your own choices – Wednesday had spurned you onto the road, Sweeney had directed you, and now Laura and Salim had taken the reigns. You were just a wheel along for the ride, just in case someone couldn’t keep going. You slid your thumb nail under the edge of one of the patches and rocked from side to side.

“I dunno,” you finally, truthfully, answered. Your mouth tried to quirk up in a smile, but it didn’t go far. You frowned, though, as your words sunk in. “I’ve never really given it much thought, actually,” you added. You set your soda bottle aside and gripped the toes of your shoes, hunching into yourself as you stared over the fire and past the taxi, watching the horizon in the far distance. Even with the light in front of you, the stars were brilliant and bright and much more beautiful than you had seen before. “I’ve been so consumed just trying to exist that I forgot that existing is also being, you know?”

“That’s very beautiful,” Salim murmured.

“That’s bullshit,” Laura shot. Salim frowned and looked over. The woman held another cigarette over the fire until it caught, then brought it to her lips for a long drag. “You don’t know who you are because you just didn’t want to know,” she said. You looked up. “I didn’t wanna be here for a long fuckin’ time, but I knew who I was then, and I know who I am now.”

“Depression manifests differently in people,” you softly argued. Her brow furrowed and her mouth opened, but you didn’t let her continue. “It’s not always just wanting to die, or not wanting to exist. I’ve wanted to exist; I’ve wanted to live.” You dropped your eyes back down to your shoes. “I’ve never really wanted to just give up the ghost. I just felt like I wasn’t anyone.” You shrugged. “Even now, when I’m miles better than I’ve ever been, I can only think of myself in terms of someone else: Bast’s human,” you said, glancing up at Sweeney, “Mr. Wednesday’s agent.” You dropped your eyes back down to the fire. “I’m a title. A word. A possession. Not a living person.” Your fingers inched over the top of your socks and your nails dug into your skin, trailing a pale line over your flesh as you started to scratch.

Salim said your name. You looked up. He smiled. “That’s who you are,” he said. He held his ankles as he shifted forward, close to the fire. You thought you saw it dance in his eyes, like the bonfires lit by others thousands of years ago. He repeated your name. “And if you ever get tired of that name, or it doesn’t fit you anymore, then you’ll pick another one, and that is who you will be.”

Sweeney’s large foot knocked against yours. Your finger dislodged from under your sock, and you noted with a gross realization that there was dead skin and plasma under your nail. You looked up at him to see him taking a long pull from his beer. “You don’t belong to a damn soul but yerself,” he mumbled.

The night wore on, with gentle jabbings at one another and stories told. At one point, Sweeney and Laura wandered away from the fire, each of them lighting a cigarette and staying out of the faint breeze. You stared absently at the crackling twigs and spun the cap of your bottle around the top.

“Did you want to ask something?” Salim’s voice spooked you, made you jump. You turned your attention to him with a soft hum. He was smiling. “You have the look of someone with a lot on their mind. Maybe it would help to speak with someone who isn’t so...” He hummed to himself. “Hostile.”

“Careful,” you teased, “They might hear you.”

“I’m sure they know.” He stood from his spot and sat closer to you. “Well? I am a good listener.”

You tilted your head as you finished your soda and tossed it in the plastic bag, mouth turning down in a frown. “How’d you know?” you asked. Salim glanced at Sweeney, who was watching the two of you as he and Laura loitered by the hood of the taxi. Laura was smoking. Sweeney had started on another cigarette. It smoldered between his lips. You looked away with a groan. “Not that,” you droned. You scratched your eyebrow and suddenly found your shoes very interesting when you realized that you knew what he was implying. “God, if someone calls him my boyfriend one more time, I’m gonna shit,” you darkly muttered. Salim gave you a small, playful smile that warmed your face. You waved your hand. “Your faith. Your...belief. How’d you know? You know?”

“Is the air real?” he asked.

You blinked. “Yes?”

“Warmth?”

“Yes.”

“Love?”

Sweeney snorted faintly. Laura lifted her hand to smack him. He flinched with a soft whine of, “Fuck off, Dead Wife.”

You swallowed, licked your bottom lip slowly, pulled it between your teeth. You watched Sweeney’s boots as he shuffled and shifted against the side of the cab, felt his eyes on your face. “Yes,” you answered.

Salim smiled and took a long pull of his water. “The belief you have that the air is real, that warmth is real, that love—” he took a moment to close the bottle, “—is real. That is the belief I have that God is real.”

_I used to be a king once. Then a bird. Then a madman._

You were slow to meet the Sweeney’s all-consuming gaze, but you did, and the world fell away as he watched you. You could spend years trying to wrap your head around the magic, the mysticism, the coin tricks. You might never really believe in the gods and goddesses that you’ve met, in their domains and their gifts. You would never accept the fact that Sweeney was, of all things, a leprechaun.

But you could believe in him.

And that’s what mattered.

All of your questioning in whatever you believed in always led back to that fact.

He took a deep, slow breath that made his cigarette smolder as the faith crept up his spine and buried somewhere in his chest.

“Are we done talking about this?” Laura asked, snapping you out of your reverie. She flicked her cigarette at the ground, squashed it between a few rocks and her boot, and sat by the fire once again. Salim yawned and stood, wandering towards the driver’s side door with a small wave. Sweeney fell into the back seat with a soft grunt, but left the door open, his feet brushing the rocks as he waited for you to eventually join him.

You moved until you sat next to Laura. “What do you see?” you asked.

She exhaled slowly, breathing out a thin stream of smoke as she lit a new cigarette. You wondered how many more she had. “Why?”

“Just curious.” She turned to you. Her head and shoulders dropped as she slouched against her knees, the cigarette dangling between her half-outstretched legs. “I’m nosy.”

“I noticed,” she drawled. You shrugged and leaned back on your hands, throwing your feet out in front of you. A cool breeze rolled through the grassy field in front of you and waved the fenced in crops in the distance. The sky was littered with stars, so many more than you had ever seen from Cairo and filled with the faintest streaks of colors. The fire crackled and the light dimmed as time passed. It died not too long after. You sighed and smiled. “What’s with you and Ginger Minge?” Laura asked.

“What do you mean?” You glanced back at the taxi. He had fallen silent, and his feet didn’t move. You wondered if he had fallen asleep.

You heard her lighter flick open and glanced over to see her lighting yet another cigarette. “You know what I mean.” She smiled slowly with a knowing smile that made your face burn.

You looked back up to the sky. “He’s my friend.” It wasn’t a lie.

She snorted, nonetheless. “Friends don’t look at each other the way you two do,” she pointed out.

“He’s my friend,” you emphasized.

She held up her hands. “It’s Shadow.”

“Hm?”

“That’s what I’m seeing.” She pointed down the road with her cigarette between her fingers. “There’s this... bright light. Like the sun. Everything else is dull and grey and lifeless, except for that light.” She brought the thing back to her lips and took a drag. “Except for Shadow.”

You didn’t point out the Ginger Minge comments she made at Sweeney, but noticed how it made your heart squeeze. You searched the skies for any constellations that you knew as you asked, “Why’d you cheat on him?”

“I needed to feel something,” she truthfully answered, “I don’t regret it.”

“I feel that,” you mumbled. She looked at you. You didn’t look back. “The feel something part, not the cheating. Can’t imagine hurting someone I love like that.” The words were heavy, but the weight didn’t last long: your hand shot out and grabbed her arm, shaking her as you all but shouted, “Look!”

“Fuck..!” She looked up. You both stood. The taxi door creaked. The skies overhead were filled with the thin trails of shooting stars, hundreds of them, maybe thousands. You patted Laura’s arm and stepped closer to her in your excitement. “It’s a meteor shower...!” you breathed.

“I see that,” she said, amused.

You shook her arm again. “Make a wish!”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that; you’ll pull my arm off.”

You made a sound and drummed your hands against her arm instead. “Make an actual wish, asshole.” She laughed, then fell silent. You watched the stars and felt a million wishes rush through your head for every one you saw: safety, love, a long life, self-acceptance, love, your sister's happiness, your own happiness, love. Self-love. Romantic love. Platonic love. A reason to stay beyond Bast never having another person there to feed her cream and play fetch with her. A reason to stay beyond the job you did for a god that never said thank you. A weight settled in your chest with the faint thought that you already that reason.

“How do you do it?” Laura finally whispered. “How do you feel something?”

Your hand was still on her arm, so you slid it down to her hand and gave it a squeeze, which she reluctantly returned. “Fake it, mostly,” you answered as you traced a slow star’s path towards the horizon. “Fake it ‘til you make it.” Cloves and fresh tobacco fill your nostrils.

You wondered what he’d wished for.

The smell caught Laura’s attention, too. She released your hand and turned around, pulling the cigarette from her lips. “You make a wish?” she asked.

You stepped further into the grass and tugged down your sleeves, hugging your sides. The wind was picking up and it was cold.

“Yeah,” Sweeney answered.

“What’d you’d wish for?” Laura kicked a rock, or Sweeney stood, or both, you couldn’t tell. The door to the taxi shut.

You pushed your hair out of your eyes and continued to watch the stars. It was beautiful.

“None of your fuckin’ business,” he muttered.

Laura clicked her tongue. “Asshole,” she grumbled.

Sweeney’s elbow tapped your back as he approached and nudged you, drawing your attention to him. He rolled the cigarette between his teeth. His hands were curled in his coat pockets. He ducked his head as he attempted to smoke and yawn. He ended up fumbling the cigarette with a gentle, “Shit.”

You smiled. “Way to go,” you teased.

He snorted but said nothing. Instead, he bit the cigarette between his teeth and stepped behind you. You stayed still, holding your breath, feeling his warmth against your back as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders. Smoke drifted down over your face and was swept away in moonlit clouds when he set his chin on your head. You lifted your hands to hold onto his forearms. He mumbled, “Yer freezin’.”

“I was fine.”

“Sure, ya were.” His fingers squeezed your shoulders. Behind you, the taxi door opened and shut. You should have asked Laura if she got tired. You were curious. “Shoulda seen this back home,” Sweeney whispered against your hair.

You forgot about the taxi. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb rubbed a circle into your shoulder, soft and slow and absent. He squeezed you, sighed, and suddenly you were sitting down again, encased by Sweeney’s limps – his legs stretched out on either side of you, his arms slung low across your chest, his chest flush against your back. You had never been so warm. He inhaled, exhaled, blew lazy rings of smoke over your head as he hung his elbow off his knee. “You know the sky’s purple?” he quietly asked.

You smiled. “And white, and pink, and blue—”

“You seen it?” he interrupted.

“—And green.” You carefully looked back. He glanced down at you, now so close that the gold in his eyes looked brass in the faint light. “No,” you admitted, “I’ve seen pictures.”

He sucked on his teeth and replaced the cigarette in his lips. “ ‘s not the same,” he grumbled.

You snorted. “Of course, it’s not the same, it’s a picture.”

“No, ya gotta see it from the cliffs,” he said with a wave of his hand as though said cliffs would appear before you.

“Oh, I _gotta_?” you mocked. He scoffed. “I just _gotta_?”

“Uh-huh,” he said with a nod and slow smile, “Who’s the asshole now?”

You snorted and giggled. “Asshole.”

“Alright, I think it’s time to sleep,” he declared as he stood. You continued to giggle, laughing as he hauled you up. You gasped as you steadied yourself, patting Sweeney’s chest as he opened the taxi door until he stared at you with an annoyed glare. “What?” he whispered. You could hear Salim snoring.

“What’d you wish for?” you said on a breath so soft that Sweeney tilted his head towards yours to hear you.

His eyes darted down your face as he thought, his fingers wrapping around the frame of the cab door. Ash tumbled down the window and the door and fell smoldering into the rocks. He finally met your eyes again after an excruciatingly long moment. “Won’t come true if I tell ya,” he sighed.

You mumbled an exhausted, “Boo,” then climbed into the cab. Sweeney shut the door behind you, leaned against it as you sprawled out behind Salim’s seat.

Laura cleared her throat as she leaned her arms on her open window and poked her head out, staring at Sweeney as the two finished their cigarettes. Sweeney had half a mind to put his out in her eye. Instead, he squashed the butt against his boot and flicked it in her direction with a darkly muttered, “Fuck off,” before climbing into the back.

She smirked. If her heart could beat, it would have squeezed a little painfully. She remembered when Shadow looked at her like that.

You dreamt of dancing beneath the stars with a wild king and making wishes on passing comets.

At some point while you slept, two things happened: the first was that Sweeney had moved around the backseat and had decided that your chest was the best pillow he could have. He reclined back between your knees and his hair tickled your chin, pulling you from your slumber. It was comfortable. You didn’t want to move. The second was that morning had come and gone and the taxi was no longer on the road but in a parking lot. You blinked slowly at you stared at the window across from you, watching Laura tug open the other backseat door.

Sweeney jumped when his feet fell from their propped-up position. He glanced at you, muttered an apology, then sat up.

“Where the fuck are we?” he grumbled.

“A bar,” Laura answered. Sweeney shot up. You rubbed your eyes as you peered out the windshield. Jack’s Crocodile Bar sat in front of you.

“Are we back in Eagle Point?” you mumbled.

Sweeney scrambled out of the taxi with a violent swear. You stumbled after him, stretched your arms above your head with a groan. You looked around the parking lot, ruffling your hair, sighing loudly as Sweeney stalked after Laura. You glanced back at them.

“Salim?” you called. He turned with a small smile. “Could you unlock the trunk? I’m gonna run to the post office and come back.”

“Of course,” he answered. The trunk popped up next to you.

Sweeney hesitated by the door of the bar. “Yer not comin?” he asked as Salim hurried into the building.

You pulled your duffle onto your shoulder, then made sure you had everything inside. “I need to stretch my legs and send a few things off to Mrs. Friday.” You smiled. “I’ll be back in an hour or so,” you said. He glanced into the bar. “I promise, I’ll be okay,” you assured.

It took a long moment, but Sweeney eventually released the door and stalked over to you. He stood before you, staring down at you with a look that you couldn’t decipher, then cleared his throat.

“An hour,” he croaked. He cleared his throat again with a gentle swear.

You nodded and smiled. “An hour.” You held out your hand with your pinky outstretched. He rolled his eyes, snorted, and hooked his own pinky around yours. Then, he stalked back towards the bar and disappeared inside. You rubbed your chest as you stared after him.

Your heart thudded a little harder than normal as you turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT WAS A LOT!!! And i know it was alot because I edited the thing!! (and wrote it but thats neither here nor there). SO!!! WHAT DO YOU THINK? You and Laura are getting closer! I would say you're becoming friends~ Also, what do you think Sweeney wished for?? :D Last but not least WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THAT FIRST EPISODE?!?! IT WAS GREAT, RIGHT?!


	14. ...and the Pass to Somewhere

The Wetland Library loomed over you, though the wetlands were less wet and the vegetation greener. You followed the same path you previously did, Hody’s shoes protecting you from the moss and dirt and twigs that made up the path. The doors were not obscured but framed by blooming vines. There were more candles this time, and blown glass lanterns that hung from the ceiling by ropes and chains. While the shelves around you were mostly empty, and the table in the middle of the room was still alone, you found that you were not the only person in the Library.

You had never met Mr. Ibis, never had a chance to while you were in Cairo, but you correctly assumed the man sitting at the desk – not a table, it was not round or surrounded by chairs but square and set up like a writing desk – must have been him. It wasn’t his appearance – his dark skin or round glasses or prim demeanor – that made you guess, but his shadow, which was cast by the single lamp on his desk and the hundreds of candles around him. It stretched so long that it climbed the distant wall, and was not the shadow of a man at a desk, but the shadow of a man standing, holding a tablet, scribbling a story that he felt needed to be told. The man’s bird head bowed, as the shadow of a cat appeared next to him.

You returned your focus to the desk.

The woman you had so often dreamed of sat on the corner of the desk with her legs crossed. She examined her nails with absent interest while she listened to a story Mr. Ibis spun. “Bast,” said Mr. Ibis, “Must you crowd me while I work?”

“I have interest in this story,” she purred. You wandered behind Mr. Ibis’s chair and felt Bast’s eyes upon your face. “I’m not the only one.”

“Oh?” He turned enough that his ear pointed at you. “I do love an audience.”

“Oh, yes,” she sighed. She placed a delicate finger against Mr. Ibis’s temple and gently pushed his head. “Do tell the story, Thoth. It’s been a long time since you’ve spun one just for me.”

You gripped the back of his chair and leaned over his shoulder.

It was the story of a girl named Essie. Mr. Ibis wrote her story, but there was another hidden between the lines of it. You leaned over his shoulder – or he leaned aside for you – and gently brushed your thumb over a space between the paragraphs. Beige words lifted from the page whose color they shared, curling in Mr. Ibis’s careful calligraphy, like smoke from an extinguished candle.

Ireland was a wild place when Essie was young, when she would sit on the shores and listen to the stories from her Grandmother. Her Grandmother spoke of leprechauns and piskies like she’d known them intimately, been under the hill time and again and returned with tales to regale a listening ear.

The elderly woman knew of Sweeney from her younger years, when she, herself, had been passed down the stories of the leprechauns and the men of the trees from her mother while the two made bread. She knew of a man who protected his gold so fiercely that he wouldn’t share a piece – not for greed, but for something else she could not place. Essie’s Grandmother imparted this wisdom onto Essie while they waited for new bread to rise, or when Essie would wait for her father’s ship to return to port, or when they separated the cream into dishes for the cats and an extra dish for the wayward faerie.

“The thing with leprechauns,” her Grandmother would say, “is that they look for those who help others.”

“Why?” asked a little Essie late one evening. She stood on her toes and slid the dish of cream into the window well. She was still too small to open the window herself, but her Grandmother was more than happy to help with such a thing.

Essie’s Grandmother didn’t have an answer for that, not one that she knew from stories or tales or late night trips into the woods. She knew of a leprechaun who was lost to the changing world and just looking for the humanity he had long missed in the woods. Her Grandmother knelt and smiled and took little Essie’s hands in her own as she said, “Because luck from a leprechaun is not given lightly.” She pinched Essie’s button nose and earned a string of light giggles. “You must prove your worth for such a gift. Only kindness begets kindness. Remember that, Essie.”

Essie nodded and let her Grandmother take her to bed that evening, asking only once for another tale of Fair Folk before she went to sleep. A man listened from beneath Essie’s window, drinking from a dish of cream and smiling at a well-worn voice. He remembered that voice, just as he would remember Essie’s.

Essie was a young lady when her Grandmother passed. The funeral was small and meager, with a pine box in the local church yard and a small flat headstone in the earth. It was all Essie could afford, and she wept when the gravediggers lowered her family into the grave. Essie knelt in the dirt and gently wedged a bottle of cream by one corner of the casket, and a wrapped loaf of bread by the other. In the center, she placed a gold coin. Nothing was special about the coin, except that it was the first gold coin that Essie had earned working as a housemaid, so it was something she could easily part with. She looked at the gravediggers when she was done with her task, rose from the dirt, and brushed off her dress.

“The leprechauns only grant luck to those who show them kindness,” she told them as she sniffled and cried, “I would hate for them not to bestow their luck on her just because she couldn’t spare a piece of bread or a dish of cream.”

She turned away.

(Essie was not a stupid girl – she knew the gravediggers would take the bread and the cream and the coin for themselves and feast on freely given food, but it was important that she gave her Grandmother’s spirit the opportunity to go under the hill with arms laden with gifts than with nothing at all.)

She brushed past a man who stood just outside the cemetery gate. She didn’t see his face, only his shoes, which were dirty and worn from hard travel, and smelled cloves and fresh tobacco on the air. Essie slowed further down the trail and turned around with the hopes of seeing the man, but he was gone just as quickly as the bread and the cream and the coin must have been. She left the cemetery.

The man, though, stayed. Essie had not seen him because he had moved further along the fence, following the hard boundary of the church yard closer to her Grandmother’s grave, smoking from a pipe that was in dire need of being replaced. He saw the men take the cream and the bread and toss the coin to see who would take it. He leaned on the fence and watched them. They felt a chill crawl into their bones as though someone had walked over their graves or cursed their names to the rising sun. They took the bread and cream but left the coin and buried Essie’s Grandmother with it. The man reached through the Hoard and plucked the coin from the dirt. He’d ensure that a spirit full of tales would find a peaceful rest in the Land of the Young and tucked the coin safely away.

“Interesting that a leprechaun who was so cautious of the encroaching civilization would pay so much attention to someone like that,” said Mr. Ibis. His words shook you from your haze. You glanced down. The wisps of words were fading from the air, their fire put out from diminishing ink. Mr. Ibis was smiling as he dipped his pen in his ink well.

You leaned your elbow on the back of his chair. “He thrives on being believed,” you responded.

The author inclined his head, setting one eye on your face, and smiled. “Everyone thrives on belief,” he replied. He nodded at his page. “Would you like me to continue?”

“I would,” you answered. You folded your hands and leaned over his shoulder. “Are you Mr. Ibis?” you asked.

“That I am,” said the man as he set his pen to paper.

You smiled. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Mr. Ibis returned your smile and set his eyes on his page. The words – the story – floated up to cloud your vision. A tinny tune filled your ear. You frowned and turned away from the desk and the book and the god that looked up from his now interrupted tale. You recognized the sound as something from an ice cream truck but you couldn’t…

…you couldn’t recall where you’d heard it.

You tilted your head and stared up. The ceiling was gone, replaced with a thin layer of fog and the bright blue sky of day beyond it.

Bast called your name. You turned your head and felt your temple throb at the sudden movement. Her nails brushed over your head and into your hair. “Are you alright, dear messenger?” she murmured. The pain slowly subsided. You leaned into her palm.

“I dunno,” you whispered. You frowned. “I don’t remember.” Your brow furrowed. “How did I get here?”

Mr. Ibis rose from his seat and turned it towards you, one hand flipping to a new set of fresh pages, while Bast guided you to sit. You looked up at them both. Mr. Ibis turned your hand over and placed the quill between your fingers. You twirled it gently. The ink welled on the nib.

“You could remember,” implied Mr. Ibis as his hands brushed over your shoulders, “You just need to let the story tell itself.” He gave your arms a squeeze, then released you.

Righting it carefully, you pressed the pen to the parchment, and wrote.

The memory bled out in careful cursive letters.

Laura and Sweeney argued as you sat at the base of a massive white bison statue, looking up at it with a tiny frown. Your head hurt a bit, and you weren’t entirely sure why, even as you leaned it against the surprisingly cool leg of the statue. Sweeney said there used to be an actual white bison, and that it used to be a god because of all the attention and reverence it got. It made you think of Lynne, and of the way that belief seemed to work when it came to gods.

It made you think of other ways that belief could work.

You glanced at Sweeney’s broad back and shifted, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand. Clove and smoke filled your nostrils. You looked down. You were wearing Sweeney’s button up over your tee shirt, one just as dirty as the other, and both just as dirty as your hair. You didn’t know when you had stolen it. You tucked your hands under your thighs and pushed off the cement pedestal just as Laura whipped around to face Salim.

“Wisconsin!” she shouted. She stalked towards the taxi. “Your Jinn will be in Wisconsin, at some place called The House on the Rock.” Salim skittered for a moment, his hands stalling as they worked to roll up his mat. Then, he hurried to the trunk, exchanged the mat for your duffle – which he carefully set on the ground, even though it was empty of almost all of your books and held nothing fragile – then climb in his car and sped off.

You lifted a hand and waved at the retreating yellow taxicab. “Bye,” you called to unlistening ears, “Drive safe.” Be careful, said your words on the air, and you felt the sentiment returned in kind by equally unheard words.

“Why the fuck did ya do that?!” Sweeney screeched over you.

“Why do you think?!” Laura screamed back.

A migraine cracked your temple in two and you squeezed your eyes shut. You folded into yourself, first at the waist, then at the knees, then pulled your arms around your head as the pain increased tenfold, until you were a ball that teetered on the toes of your gifted shoes with your name echoing like thunder in your head.

A hot hand touched the back of your neck. You flinched away from it. Sweeney’s face swam before you, concern etched into his features as a voice that wasn’t his came from his mouth, “Are you alright?”

“Hm?”

Your eyes fluttered. You stared at the parchment where the ink bled from the quill in your hand and stained dozens of pages behind it. You dropped it and stood, hurling a litany of apologies to a man who only chuckled and waved his hand.

He picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink well with the precision of a master. “It’s no bother,” he said. Then, he tilted his head. “Though, I wouldn’t say no to a fresh pot of ink.” You tucked the suggestion in the back of your mind, between a crack that had yet to fill, and folded Sweeney’s button up around yourself until it was all you could feel – the warmth of the Irishman seemed to seep from its threads and into your cold skin.

Why were you so cold?

Bast rubbed your back and frowned. “Don’t force the memory,” she purred with a press of her cheek against your temple. The pounding ache dulled. She smelled so good, so deliriously good that you leaned into her and let her hold up your dead weight. She gathered you into her arms like you were nothing but a mess of feathers, or a newborn kitten, and held you close. Her arm hooked behind your knees and your head lolled against her shoulder. She perched on the corner of Mr. Ibis’s desk and held you tight.

“Do continue your story, Thoth,” she insisted. Her nails stroked down your temple, and the pain followed them, trickling down your face and jaw, until it disappeared. You closed your eyes. “No, no,” she tutted, shrugging her shoulder. You scrunched your face. “You must stay awake, my dear.” Her nails brushed your hair. “You have to be awake to hear the story.”

“What’s this?” Your eyes wandered up, away from Bast’s lingering touch and the curve of Mr. Ibis’s shoulders as he moved his chair to let your feet dangle over his arm. Another man approached the writing desk with the confidence and stride of a proud but equally humble being. He folded his hands in front of him and rested his knuckles on the wood, watching the two deities around you before focusing his eyes on your bundled form. “I must say, this is a surprise.”

“Mr. Jacquel,” Mr. Ibis both called and introduced as he tapped his quill against the rim of his ink pot. “A pleasure.”

“Your services aren’t required,” drawled Bast. Her cheek rubbed against your scalp. “As you can see.” With the ache gone from your head, you started to notice other pains – in your nose, in your chest, in your knees and shins and all the way up your spine. You wondered where the pain had come from and how you had walked into the Wetland Library at all.

“So, I have noticed.” Mr. Jacquel acknowledged you with a long look, then extended his hand out to you, a gesture that you took with tender, weak fingers. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said with a slow smile, “You’re becoming quite the story collector.” He retracted his hand. “I believe you might have a collection that will rival Mr. Ibis’s soon.”

“Now, let’s not be hasty,” Mr. Ibis jested. He waved a hand to the corner opposite you and Bast. “Will you join us?”

“It has been a long time since I’ve had the chance to play audience to a story,” stated Mr. Jacquel as he adjusted his long robe and perched on the desk. Mr. Ibis tutted, but smiled, and once again dipped his quill into the ink. Tapping its tip against the pot, he quickly dove back into writing. The faded tan of the story between the lines rose like smoke from the paper and filled your eyes with green grass and blue sky and the distant storm at sea.

The first time that Essie McGowan crossed the Atlantic, she had a shadow. He was a watchful shadow, and when the cream no longer appeared on the windowsill – for how could piskies and faeries and leprechauns travel across the water so far from home – he found the cream elsewhere: in the dishes of babes and mousers, on the lips of ladies whose husbands slept soundly beside them, and in the bottles that the cook made sure to keep a steady eye on. Those were purchased with a bit of luck and fanciful tales that were shared over liquor and late nights. Those were the best ones.

(Those reminded you of something, you thought as he remembered them; of late nights and awful movies; of lounging on a threadbare sofa into the early mornings.)

The leprechaun watched the ocean one day, feeling that feeling one gets when a limb falls asleep in the back of his mind. He carded his fingers through his misted locked with a frown, then dug his nails into his scalp as he groaned. He’d had the feeling since he set out on the crossing, following his tall tales to another coast and another country – the feeling that he was forgetting something, that someone was watching him, that he was somewhere that he should know well but couldn’t pinpoint, like being lost when your destination is just around a corner. He folded himself in half to stare at the water that lapped at the ship’s hull and groaned.

What was he forgetting?

He dropped his hands.

You stared back up at him, watching his face through the waves. He looked so different with his hair long and wavy, and the beard trimmed to a thin layer of stubble across his jaw. But you hadn’t seen him look so lost before. So clean and prim and proper, someone that belonged in a world beyond the faerie circles, but still so lost.

He leaned on the bulwark of the ship and started to whistle while pulling a familiar coin from the Hoard.

The whistle became distant, the glint of the coin faded, and your eyes fluttered. Something warm and wet dragged across your temple while sharp nails gently separated your hair. “Stay with me, little mouse,” Bast whispered in your ear.

Mr. Jacquel eyed you in Bast’s lap. “You must be the Sad One,” he mused, a smile slowly creeping across his face.

“Sad one?” you murmured.

He hummed. “This is what Bast called you. She didn’t know you name for the longest time.”

“It took the leprechaun showing up to get it,” she huffed, her lips brushing your skin. Your temple didn’t hurt any more. In fact, the pain had vanished. You blinked as the fog slowly started to fade. She pressed a kiss against the once bloody spot, then nuzzled her nose into your hair. “But now you are no longer sad,” she purred, “Now you’re a shooting star: granting wishes, lighting up skies.”

“Sounds fake,” you grumbled.

Mr. Ibis chuckled. “How can a star see what it does when it is the star?” he asked. Bast combed her fingers through your hair as you watched him. He dipped the quill into the ink, tapped it once, then extended it out to you. “Would you like to try again?”

“This is another first,” Mr. Jacquel commented as you slid from Bast’s lap. She steadied you, her needle like claws piercing the fabric of your shirt but going no further. “Since when do you let anyone sit in your chair? Or write in your book for that matter?”

“When they have something to share, of course,” replied Mr. Ibis with a blithe smile. He helped you into the seat, then eased the quill between your fingers. You stared at its gold tip, glistening with ink, then looked up. Across from you, between the aisles of the Library – aisle that held a few books, you realized, books that you recognized, that you had read once before – were long shadows that stretched from the desk. You were one of them, a lone figure with an outline that was distorted and inky, and down three other aisles were shadows you recognized: Thoth, straightening from the desk; Bast, arching her back at your elbow; and Anubis, sitting calmly besides you. Their heads all turned to you, and you cast your eyes downwards, to the paragraph you had left off before, and pressed the nib to the parchment.

You had been on the road for an undetermined stretch of time, marked by an undetermined stretch of silence in which you examined the truck and Sweeney swore up a storm about the cold.

“I cannot believe you stole an ice cream truck,” you said as you hefted up the lid of one of the freezers. You barely saw Laura’s head tilt as she shrugged but didn’t say anything to your comment. You leaned into the freezer and dug around.

“What’re you doin’?” asked Sweeney as he leaned next to you, having abandoned his seat in the front. You felt the truck trundle over some rough pavement and braced against the freezer carefully.

You glanced up at him. “What?”

“Are you takin’ the ice cream?” he slowly asked, watching your face with a slow smile. The tip of his nose was red. You absently touched your own. It was cold.

You puffed your cheeks and let the freezer shut, holding out a treat. “No,” you replied indignantly. He took it. “I’m taking a popsicle.” He snorted at the semantics and ripped off the paper wrapper. You followed suite and tossed the wrapped in his direction with a soft cheer. It was purple. Sweeney’s was red. “You know, I used to love these as a kid,” you said as you leaned back against the freezer. You slid your toes to the base of the other and wedged yourself between them.

Sweeney crunched on the tip of his, groaning as it melted in his mouth. You glanced up as you placed the tip of your own popsicle between your lips. The freezer lid creaked. Sweeney’s finger brushed your hip, the swell of your ass that was perched on the freezer, then pressed closer. He didn’t watch you but watched your mouth around the treat with a heat in his eyes and his tongue tracing his bottom lip.

You flushed when you looked away but didn’t remove the popsicle from your mouth. In fact, you pushed it further between your lips and settled back against the ice chest and his wandering hand.

He leaned his head closer to yours as his hand slid behind you. “Think it’s becomin’ my favorite, too,” Sweeney rasped in your ear. You took your time as you pulled the popsicle free from the suction of your mouth. “Or, at least watchin’ you eat it is,” he added. His voice had dropped lower.

You widened your eyes when you looked up at him to innocently ask, “Why’s that?” The question was the only thing you could get out.

The look he gave you was almost predatory, but not quite; scalding with intensity, but smoldering with heat; and was fixed solely on your eyes as you stared back at him. They wouldn’t need to wander anywhere else, couldn’t even if they wanted to – Sweeney had moved so close, had almost closed the distance between the both of you that you could see the Hoard sprinkled across the Irish fields of his eyes. You wondered what he saw in your own gaze.

“Y’know, there’s a word for people like you,” he whispered.

“What’s that?” you replied in kind.

When had you become so bold? Was it always like this? You had become comfortable with him, yes, but you couldn’t recall when it had been okay to start flirting with him. Was it when you heart started to beat a little faster when he stared? Or was it when you started noticing how warm his hands were, how rough and callused they were, and how perfect yours fit into his? He didn’t seem to mind, nor want to comment on it. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it!

“Fuck!” snarled Laura. You jumped. It was so loud and sharp in the truck, like a firecracker going off in your ear. It broke whatever trance both you and Sweeney had been in, and you both looked up at the Dead Wife driving the truck. “We need gas,” she groaned. She threw a glance back at you. “I’ll pay you back?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Okay.” You glanced down. The popsicle laid at your feet. The melted purple ice turned black as it reached your feet.

“There’s a book here,” you said, no longer in the ice cream truck but in the Library – in your library – surrounded by the gods that were pulled to you somehow. You stared at the small ink blot that sunk into the pages, then looked up as Mr. Ibis took the quill from your warming fingers. “Did you see it?” you asked.

“What book would that be, my dear?” he asked. You pushed out of the chair and stumbled. You felt like a baby deer, but you didn’t know why – your legs were weak, and trembled as you turned around and spotted the book you were looking for. It sat on one of the shelves, next to a book on Celtic Mythology. You plucked it off the shelf.

The cover was different. It was softer, as though it had been properly taken care of, and some of the sloppier patches were gone. _Sweeney_ , the one written in black marker, was also gone, replaced instead by the looping letters that spelled out his name in pretty, green paint. You opened it carefully. More of the pages were filled – some were even covered in gorgeous illustrations; one was of a man with a circlet of bronze branches dancing with a woman around a massive bonfire. The gentle waves of his hair looked familiar, but his face was turned towards the woman, who bore no face at all. There was the story of Essie, halfway through being told, with Essie’s story on one page and Sweeney’s story on the facing one. Essie’s story continued, the words appearing as though they were sinking into the page.

It made you realize that where you were – it wasn’t real.

It wasn’t corporeal.

It was in your head. Or, at least, it was somewhere else.

Somewhere different.

Somewhere between.

You flipped through the pages until you came across another illustration, one of you and Sweeney in the back of the ice cream truck.

“May I see that?” asked Mr. Ibis over your shoulder.

You jumped – you hadn’t heard him approach. You closed the book and held it to your chest. “I’m sorry?”

“May I see that?” he asked again. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he held his hands in front of him, clasped together. “It’s interesting that another’s story would be available to another like this, even more so when it’s the story of someone like Sweeney,” he commented. His mouth quirked up in a smile. “I’ll give it back.”

You brushed your fingers over the spine. The leather was so soft beneath the patches. Hesitantly, you held the book out. Mr. Ibis took it with light, careful fingers, then motioned for you to follow him back to the desk with his head. You obeyed.

“Something like this,” he slowly explained, “Well, to put it plainly, this is something that I would expect to find on my shelves.” He leafed through the pages.

“In Cairo?” you asked.

He nodded. “I collect stories. At least, the more interesting ones. My office is filled with tomes like this, each of them carefully detailing the lives of their subjects from start to finish.” He smiled. “I even have yours.”

“I’m sorry, I have a book?” you asked.

“Of course,” he said, “You are here, after all.” He trailed his finger down a page. “To see that you have this here, well, it is very interesting.”

“How so?” you asked again, tucking his comment about you away for a later time. Bast carded her fingers through your hair when you were close enough, and you let her. She tugged you between her legs and parted the strands with her nails, then leaned in to drag her tongue over the gash on your scalp. You didn’t pull away. In fact, it was comforting. You relaxed against her. Mr. Ibis was too involved in the book before him to answer. You hummed. “It’s been here for a while,” you murmured, “It looked worse before.” You yawned. “I made a promise to myself that I’d help him get his memory back,” you absently whispered.

Cool hands dislodged you from Bast’s embrace. You were guided around the back of Mr. Ibis’s chair, then lifted to sit by his elbow. Mr. Jacquel sat next to you. His fingers started to trail over your scalp.

“Mr. Ibis,” called Mr. Jacquel. The storyteller looked up after a moment. “I believe you should be able to pull the memory from your successor’s mind.”

“My successor?” Mr. Ibis asked with interest. You smiled. “Oh, well, I am dearly honored to have such a talented successor, indeed.” He gingerly closed Sweeney’s book and set it aside. Then, he turned his hand up to you, while his other collected his quill. “Come now, little ibis. Give me your hand.”

“Little ibis,” you murmured as you set your hand in his. His fingers were covered in softening calluses. “I like that.”

Mr. Ibis curled his fingers around yours and hummed. “I don’t mind it one bit,” he said.

The pen touched the parchment.

“’ere.” You looked up just in time to get slapped in the face by a wad of fabric. Sputtering, you leaned back against the freezer. The shirt you wore – the button up that normally graced Sweeney’s shoulders – fell into your lap. You stared at it, then at your covered wrists, and back at the shirt. “Put it on,” Sweeney grunted as he leaned back. He was tugging his jean jacket back over his shoulders while snuggling deeper into the sleeping bags he had found buried in the truck. He tilted his head. “Put it on and c’mere.”

You pulled the shirt on but left it unbuttoned over the sweatshirt you had donned at somepoint, then slid across the cold floor to Sweeney’s side. He tugged you over one thigh and into his lap, where he tucked you close to his chest and wrapped his arms around you. You shifted until your shoulder curved against his and your back rested against his arm. He’d tucked a sleeping bag underneath him to keep the cold from freezing his ass.

“You two getting cozy back there?” Laura threw over her shoulder.

“Fuck off,” replied Sweeney lazily. He thumped his head back against the seat he leaned on. “Just because yer not bothered by freezer burn doesn’t mean we aren’t.”

“So, you have to snuggle?” she teased.

“It has been scientifically proven that sharing body heat is the best way to stave off the cold since it’s a slow warm,” you said.

“Science,” Sweeney added. He squeezed you against him.

Laura scoffed. “Yeah, because you knew that, Ginger Minge,” she said. You stared at the side of her face. She was paler than she had been earlier that morning, looking more and more like a corpse the longer she was in the cold.

“I’m not a stupid as you think I am, Dead Wife,” he snapped.

Laura rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure, right, I forgot that you were a genius.”

“Hey, is it difficult for you to drive?” you cut in. She glanced back at you. “I don’t know if you went through rigor mortis or if that really applies but it looks like you’re decaying, so your joints should be getting stiff.” You adjusted in Sweeney’s hold as you spoke to keep your voice from being swallowed by the camping gear. Your knees framed Sweeney’s thigh as you sat up, pulling the sleeves over your hands and crossing your arms. You leaned your weight against his shoulder and propped your chin on the passenger’s seat he leaned on. He grunted. Even through the layers you could feel him shift and press his face into your ribs, the cold of his nose and cheeks seeping through the cloth. His arms squeezed your hips, then slid lower, until his hands gripped your thighs and his cold fingers sought out the heat between them.

You tapped your elbow against his head and told yourself that the flush in your cheeks was from the cold. You didn’t stop him, and his hands didn’t wander any further than that.

Laura looked back at you. “You know, I haven’t really given it too much thought?” she said. She adjusted herself in the seat. She wiggled her fingers.

You watched them, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw something hop out into the road. You didn’t think too much of it then, and hardly glanced at it, but you knew exactly what it was.

It was a small white rabbit.

You jerked. No, you didn’t want to see that again. You didn’t want to!

“I remember,” you whispered. Your hands trembled beneath your chin. You glanced at them. You must have pulled your hand away when you realized what was about to happen. You met Mr. Ibis’s gaze, then Bast’s, and lastly Mr. Jacquel’s. “Am I dead?”

The last man had the grace to chuckle only a little, shaking his head. “No, little ibis,” he murmured, “No, Bast has made it clear that this is not your time to go.”

Your head snapped to her. She was stretching again, smiling a languid smile, and in one of her hands was the pumpkin toy. She gave it a gentle shake. “You have given me much worship since we’ve met,” she cooed, “I felt your distress all the way back home.”

“It worked out that I was already working on something,” Mr. Ibis added. You held your elbows as Bast wandered to you and dangled the pumpkin in front of you. She waited until you presented your hands to drop it into your palms. Mr. Ibis motioned to the Library around you. “Imagine my surprise when Mr. Jacquel and I reached out to find you and found this place,” he said. He smiled a mysterious little grin and tilted his head. “It seems we have very much in common.”

“What is this place, then?” you asked. You curled further into yourself. Your muscles were starting to hurt. “I’ve been here before.”

Mr. Ibis leaned back in his seat, tilting his head up towards the ceiling. “Well, that is a little harder to explain,” he murmured. You watched his face. His eyebrows arched a little higher, and he sat up. “And we may not have enough time to explain it right now.”

“What do you mean?” you whispered.

He motioned upwards. “The sky is falling.”

You looked up. The ceiling was rapidly coming towards you, its brilliant blue hue filling your gaze. You lifted your arms to try and keep yourself from getting squished, but your arms didn’t move. They were held at your sides by something strong and warm. You squeezed the toy in your hand. Your body ached and the air was a little cold but whoever held you was so very warm.

“Wake up.” The words barely existed in your ear. Hot breath puffed against your neck, and arms squeezed your aching body tight against a chest you were familiar with. You were rocked forward and back. “Please.” The man that held you sniffed, and your hair was pushed away from your face. You could feel the dirt on his skin as he pressed his forehead against yours. He whispered something, something in Gaeilge, then sniffed again. “Bran, I’d do anything if you’d fix this.”

You parted your lips. It took so much energy! Why? Why did it take so much energy! “Don’t make promises you won’t keep,” you whispered.

Sweeney’s eyes popped open. His hands gripped the sides of your head so fast that you had to grab his jacket to keep yourself upright. Something fell from your hands and hit the ground with the tinkle of a bell. His eyes looked more golden than green as they flicked over your face. “Yer--”

“Bast,” you sighed. Your breath tasted like the fake grape popsicle you had eaten hours ago. “And Mr. Ibis, and Mr. Jacquel.”

Sweeney licked his lips as his eyes dropped to your mouth. His fingers smoothed your hair away from your face again. “How?”

“’s a long story,” you muttered. You shifted your legs. They fell off his lap. Carefully, you pulled your feet under you. Sweeney’s hands dropped to your arms to help you stand. Rolling your shoulders, you squinted up at him. “Were you crying?” you softly asked.

His hands shot for his face, and the heel of his palm brushed under an eye. “No,” he grunted. He sniffed again. He gripped your arm and turned you around with his other hand.

You stumbled as you were faced away from him, frowning, then gasped at the sight of Laura’s very dead body sprawled out on the pavement. Your hands flew to cover your mouth. She was motionless. Her jacket was open, and her shirt had ripped down the middle, right where her autopsy scars had burst at the seams. There was very little blood, but there was a rank smell. You lifted a foot and looked around the ground, scooping up the small pumpkin toy you spotted by your heel. Sweeney shuffled past you. You watched as he knelt and plucked his lucky coin from the road.

Your throat suddenly felt dry. “Sweeney?”

He stared at his coin. You wondered what he was thinking.

(He was thinking of all the bad luck he’d had since he lost the damn thing – he’d come onto you so strongly that you’d kicked him across a bathroom stall; you had seen someone die rather violently; you’d been followed – stalked – by one of the Children; he’d dragged you across two states; made you fight; made you steal; made you grave rob; he’d gotten arrested; he’d seen you getting cozy with someone else; you had died; you had almost died. All the bad luck seemed to involve you. Maybe losing the coin just made him cursed.)

He looked at you.

He looked at the coin.

He enveloped it in his hand and held his closed fist out towards you. “Take it,” he rasped. He cleared his throat and repeated the phrase, “Take it,” a little more clearly. You hesitantly held your empty hand under his. He watched you, turned to you, took your cold hand in his warm one and pressed the coin into your skin. It was hot, like a quarter that had been left on a summer sidewalk. The one that dangled from your throat burned just a bit.

Then, he withdrew his hand, and the weight of centuries of luck filled your veins until, for once, you felt rooted to the world.

You turned the coin over until the sun stared at you.

Sweeney sniffed and swiped at his nose. “You decide what to do with it,” he mumbled.

Your eyes snapped up to him. “What?” you squeaked. “No.” You shoved the coin at him. “Take it back!”

Sweeney took a step backwards. “Nah.”

“Take it back!” you shouted.

He stepped back again, a smile working across his face. “I gave it to you!”

(Gods, he didn’t realize how much it would hurt to never hear the sound of your voice again.)

“And I’m giving it back!” you exclaimed.

He continued backwards then swore when his heel caught on the dead weight of Laura Moon in the middle of the road. He tumbled ass over tea kettle and disappeared into the grass. He snarled. You gasped in surprise.

(Would his luck be different, thought Sweeney as he laid face down in the earth, now that he knew he gave the coin away? That he gave the luck away willingly, instead of being tricked by a bastard? Maybe giving it away would break a curse. Maybe giving it to you would break his.)

You glanced down at Laura and knew what had to be done – she had to have the coin. It wasn’t fair, was it? Now that she’d had a taste of life again. Now that she could atone for the things that she’d done wrong. Now that she wanted to live. Who were you to deny her of that?

You swiftly pressed the coin against the middle of her ribcage, then carefully worked your way down the low shoulder to make sure Sweeney hadn’t broken anything. He merely groaned when you arrived, lifting a hand above his head and waving you off. You almost stumbled over your own feet in an effort not to step on him.

“’m gonna lie here a moment,” he muttered to the grass. You tugged his shirt closed over your sweatshirt and crouched next to him. He turned his head towards you. His temple was scrapped, and a few slivers of glass pierced his skin. “Leave me,” he groaned.

You hummed as you reached out, carefully pulling the glass free until all the pieces were gone.

(What would he have done if he couldn’t feel your touch anymore? What would he have given to feel it again?)

“Nah,” you said, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

A startled gasp drew your attention back to the road. Laura shot up, bracing her hands behind her as she looked around with wide eyes and dilated pupils.

You stood and brushed off your jeans, internally groaning – there were so many patches that had become victims to road rash! You were down to one pair. You made a note that wherever you ended up, you needed to go through your clothes and trash all the ones that were no longer salvageable. And shower. That was important. Actually, maybe Nancy could fix them! If you paid him.

Laura pulled her skin together, then zipped up the jacket.

“What the fuck happened?” Laura croaked.

“Um.” You carded a hand through your hair. There was a scab along your hair line and another down the back of your head, but neither were bad. You looked around, climbing up onto the road from the ditch when you were sure that Sweeney was going to stand up again. “Bunny, I think.” You rolled your shoulder. You ached. You glanced at the spot on the road you had woken up on as Laura stood, and felt your heart thud in your chest.

It was red.

You felt you owed one hell of a boon to Bast now, something much better than a pumpkin. Thinking of the toy, you squeezed it in your other hand and watched Laura right the ice cream truck with ease. You wandered back to it.

“Oh, shit,” Laura muttered. She glanced at you. “Sorry.”

“For what?” you asked as you walked past her to the door, then paused.

Pills and glass and powder littered the floor. The small bag you had carried your medications in had ripped open in the crash, and the bottles inside had been crushed by freezers. What wasn’t crushed was covered in glass from the windows and, upon closer inspection, from your phone, which was beyond salvaging.

You carefully climbed into the truck while pulling Sweeney’s shirt tighter around you.

“This is fine,” you found yourself wheezing. Sweeney’s hand pressed against your back. “I’ll just refill them when I find another pharmacy. Yeah.” You swallowed. “This is fine.” It wasn’t fine, you thought to yourself. You hid the anxious tremble of your fingers in the tightening of your shirt, pulling it taut until you thought you heard a seam pop. Medication aside, what if there was an emergency? No one knew where you were, except for those you were with. No one would be able to respond to you if you needed them. No one would get to you in time if you did something stupid or drastic or reckless.

Laura said something, then Sweeney replied, and the door of the truck squealed as it closed. It lurched forward.

Sweeney caught you by your elbows with a soft grunt. “’ey,” he murmured. He turned you around. He cupped your face when you didn’t look up at him and forced your face upwards. You could see him but couldn’t register why he was frowning. “You need those, yeah?” he whispered. You nodded. “Right, then we’ll get ‘em. Soon as we can.” You nodded again. “Alright,” he said. His hands fell from your face to your hips. “Jump,” he commanded. You didn’t try to follow it; instead, he just lifted you up, like you were nothing, and set you on the edge of the freezer. He tugged his loose shirt out from under your rear, then buttoned it closed down the front, and finally moved you back until your knees caught on the freeze lid. He stood between them.

“Y’know,” Laura commented, “If Jesus really is there, maybe we can have him fix that brain of yours.”

You didn’t mean to flinch, but you did mean to duck your head. Was it the same thing? It didn’t matter – she was right, wasn’t she? You only needed those because your brain wasn’t working right, right? A voice crept into your brain.

You felt it.

You dreaded it.

(You recognized it.)

Sweeney scowled and rubbed your hands between his palms. “Fuck off, Dead Wife,” he snarled. He ducked his head closer to yours and whispered, “There’s nothin’ wrong with ya.”

(The voice you hadn’t heard in months and months told you he was lying.)

Sweeney’s hands were cold by the time the ice cream truck rolled up to a lavish mansion, and your anxiety had curdled into a hard stone in your gut. You slung your almost empty duffle over your shoulder and jumped out of the truck with a groan.

“Lead the way, Ginger Minge,” Laura directed with a wave of her arms.

(You never did ask how she knew he was ginger, said the voice.)

Sweeney groaned and rolled his eyes and shouldered between you both. His fingers wrapped around the strap of your bag and tugged you along after him.

The anxiety in your stomach morphed into a roiling pit of dread.

Something was going to happen, you thought as you watched the mansion grow closer, as you followed the weaving garden path to the back door, as you slipped inside with Sweeney before you and Laura behind.

Something was going to happen and it was going to change everything.

(Something bad.)

You could feel it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!!! HERE YOU ARE!!! FINALLY WE HAVE MADE IT TO OSTARA'S!!!! We're about HALF WAY through our adventure! What do you guys think?? How do you feel about everything that's happened so far? What are you thoughts about what is going on with yourself in this little story??? And, lastly, what did you think of that episode!!! Wasn't that great?? I really loved all the little scenes we got with Technical Boy and Shadow!!!! As always, let me know how you enjoyed this chapter!! :D

**Author's Note:**

> So!! That's chapter one! I've been SO excited to post this here (to post this in general) and now, I have!! I really REALLY hope that you enjoyed it! Did you enjoy those character reveals? What about the little throw in introduction for Mr. Wednesday (on a Wednesday HAH)? Let me know what you think!! :D


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